The 65-Storey Treehouse Page 3

  ‘Are they dinosaurs?’ says Terry.

  ‘No,’ says the inspector, ‘they’re some of the earliest mammals to live on Earth.’

  ‘They’re so cute!’ says Terry. ‘We should take one back for Jill.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ says the inspector. ‘They need to stay here so they can evolve into the ancestor of apes, monkeys and humans.’

  ‘Monkeys?’ says Terry. ‘I hate monkeys.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, ‘but that doesn’t mean we don’t share a common ancestor with them.’

  ‘Ugh! Speak for yourself,’ says Terry. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Terry,’ I say, ‘because that one looks a little bit like you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Terry. ‘And that one looks a lot like you!’

  Suddenly we hear thunderous stomping and snorting noises. The Plesiadapis stop playing and look around in alarm.

  A dinosaur with an enormous nose bursts through the undergrowth and snorts at them.

  ‘Yikes!’ I say. ‘That dinosaur has the biggest nose I’ve ever seen!’

  ‘It’s a Bignoseasaur!’ says the inspector. ‘A dinosaur that is in direct contravention of the World Health Organisation’s suggested guidelines for a healthy nose-to-body ratio. It’s famous for its bad temper. The safest way to behave around one is to be very quiet and try not to be noticed.’

  ‘It reminds me of someone,’ says Terry, ‘but I can’t think who.’

  ‘This is bad,’ says the inspector. ‘If the dinosaurs are still around that means the asteroid that wiped them out hasn’t hit yet.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘We might get to see an asteroid!’

  ‘If you do, it will probably be the last thing you ever see,’ says the inspector. ‘Asteroids are very dangerous, you know. Even more dangerous than Bignoseasaurs!’

  ‘Hey!’ yells Terry, as the Bignoseasaur advances on the Plesiadapis. ‘Get away from them, you big bully!’

  At the sound of Terry’s voice, the Bignoseasaur turns towards us. It stares and roars.

  ‘Good one, Terry,’ I say, backing away.

  ‘Yeah, good one, Terry,’ says the inspector.

  The Bignoseasaur roars again and paws the ground.

  ‘It looks just like Kevin the mechanical bull when he gets mad,’ says Terry. ‘I think it’s getting ready to charge.’

  ‘If only we had a brightly coloured cape,’ I say. ‘Maybe we could distract it.’

  ‘A brightly coloured safety vest might work,’ says Terry.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘Where are we going to get a brightly coloured safety vest from?’

  ‘From the inspector,’ says Terry.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ says the inspector. ‘Regulation 6 of the Brightly Coloured Safety Vest Act states that a building permit inspector should wear a brightly coloured safety vest at all times.’

  ‘But it’s 65 million years before that law was even invented,’ I say, ‘so, technically, you won’t be breaking it.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says the inspector. ‘Technically, you might be right … and I guess you will be using it in the interests of safety …’ He hands me the vest.

  I hold the vest out to the side, matador-style, and wave it at the Bignoseasaur.

  It snorts in rage, lowers its massive nose and charges at me.

  I spin at the last moment and it rushes past.

  ‘Olé!’ I say.

  It turns and charges again.

  Once more I step aside.

  ‘Olé! Olé!’ I say.

  Each time it runs at me and misses, it gets madder, and its nose gets bigger and redder.

  ‘Watch out,’ says Terry. ‘I think it’s going to blow!’

  ‘What’s that?’ I say. ‘It’s going to blow its nose?’

  ‘No,’ says Terry. ‘Its nose is going to explode!’

  ‘Why, an explosion that big could wipe out all life on Earth!’ says the inspector. ‘Could it be possible that this is how the dinosaurs disappeared?’

  ‘Who cares?’ I say. ‘It’s going to be how we disappear if we don’t take cover!’

  The Plesiadapis that looks like Terry starts biting the leg of his pants.

  ‘Hey!’ says Terry. ‘Quit that!’

  Then the one who looks like me starts tugging at my pants.

  ‘What’s wrong with you stupid things?’ I say. ‘Can’t you see we’ve got a serious problem here?’

  ‘I think they’re trying to help us,’ says the inspector, who has one tugging at his pants as well. ‘They’re pulling us in the direction of that burrow!’

  ‘He’s right!’ says Terry, ‘and we don’t have a moment to lose. I’ve never seen a nose so ready to blow!’

  We quickly follow the Plesiadapis to their burrow.

  Terry stops and bends over.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  ‘I’m just saving a poor little helpless ant,’ he says.

  ‘Well hurry up!’ I say.

  Terry scoops up the ant and puts it in his pocket.

  The entrance to the burrow is small, but with a bit of pushing and shoving we all manage to get safely inside.

  ‘Cool burrow,’ says Terry.

  ‘And very safe,’ says the inspector. ‘You can’t beat a good underground bunker. And I see we have food supplies for some time.’

  ‘What sort of food?’ says Terry.

  ‘Looks like dragonflies, fern fronds and a primitive form of marshmallow.’

  ‘Prehistoric marshmallows!’ says Terry, shoving a handful into his mouth and then immediately spitting them out. That’s not marshmallow … that’s fungus!’

  ‘What do you think marshmallows are made of?’ says the inspector.

  But before Terry can register the full horror of what the inspector has just said, there is a huge explosion above us.

  We emerge from the burrow. There’s an enormous smoking crater where the Bignoseasaur had been.

  Everything is covered in thick green goo and there are piles of dead dinosaurs everywhere.

  ‘Eurgh,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘But what about the Plesiadapis?’ says Terry. ‘They saved our lives.’

  ‘And we saved theirs,’ I say. ‘Fair trade.’

  ‘But the prehistoric world is so dangerous,’ says Terry. ‘Can’t we take them with us?’

  ‘No, I already explained that,’ says the inspector. ‘If we took them with us, they wouldn’t evolve and we wouldn’t be able to exist. But just to be on the safe side—and if it makes you feel better—I’ll give them all a bit of extra protection.’

  The inspector gets out his roll of bubble wrap and makes little bubble-wrap suits for all the Plesiadapis.

  ‘There,’ he says when he’s finished. ‘That should keep them out of trouble for the next 65 million years or so.’

  ‘I’ve made a few adjustments to the chronometer,’ says Terry, ‘and I’m certain that this time we will arrive at the building permit office six and half years before we built our treehouse.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ says the inspector, as we climb into the bin and close the lid.

  ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I think I’ve had enough history for one day.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Terry. ‘Here we goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo …’

  CHAPTER 7

  STONE AGE ART SCHOOL

  We swirl and swirl and swirl until, finally, the wheelie bin lands.

  Terry is studying the chronometer.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘is this six and a half years before the treehouse was built?’

  ‘Um … not exactly,’ says Terry, ‘but we’re definitely getting closer … now we’re in the year 65,000 BC.’

  I open the lid of the bin. ‘Wow, look!’ I say. ‘Cave men!’

  ‘And cave women!’ says Terry. ‘And cave chil
dren and … cave dogs!’

  ‘They don’t look very happy,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Terry. ‘They look kind of bored.’

  ‘Well, it’s no wonder, really,’ I say. ‘I mean, they are living in the Stone Age. All the really good stuff hasn’t been invented yet. There are no books, no TV, no treehouses! There’s nothing to do.’

  Terry goes up to them and says, ‘Hi, I’m Terry. How are you?’

  ‘Bored,’ says a cave man.

  ‘Why don’t you draw something?’ says Terry. ‘That’s what I do when I’m bored.’

  ‘“Draw something”?’ grunts one of the cave men. ‘What is “draw”? What is “something”?’

  ‘What is “draw something”?’ says one of the cave women.

  Terry is shocked. ‘They don’t even know what drawing is!’ he says.

  ‘It hasn’t been invented yet, remember?’ I say. ‘They don’t have pens, pencils, spooncils or paper. How could they know about drawing?’

  ‘But what about drawing in the dirt with sticks?’ says Terry. ‘They could do that. They’ve got lots of sticks and plenty of dirt.’

  Terry kneels down and starts showing the cave people how to draw in the dirt with a stick.

  ‘Now you try,’ he says, giving them each a stick.

  The cave people try to do some drawings with their sticks, but (no offence, cave people) they’re not very good. Even I can draw better than that, and I can’t even draw.

  ‘Here,’ says Terry, joining up the random marks one of the cave children has done. ‘I’ll show you how to make that into a really cool picture.’

  The cave people get very excited.

  ‘Do it again!’ they grunt. ‘Do it again!’

  So Terry does it again.

  And they get even more excited.

  So Terry does it for a third time.

  ‘Now I’ll show you painting,’ says Terry.

  ‘“Painting”?’ says a cave man. ‘What is “painting”?’

  Terry quickly makes a brush out of some stiff grass and a stick and mixes up some dirt and water.

  ‘This is painting,’ he says. ‘You dip your brush in the mud and then daub it on the wall … like this.’

  A few of the cave people copy him.

  ‘That’s it!’ says Terry proudly. ‘I think you’ve got it!’

  It’s not long before the cave people have covered every possible surface—ground, cave wall and even skin—with drawings and paintings.

  ‘Look!’ says Terry. ‘They’ve done a Barky the Barking Cave Dog comic strip!’

  ‘Oh no!’ I say. ‘I hate Barky!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ says Terry. ‘Everybody loves Barky! Even cave people!’

  ‘“Barky”?’ says the inspector. ‘What’s “Barky”?’

  ‘Only the world’s most boring TV show!’ I say.

  ‘If you run along beside it really fast, it’s just like watching a cartoon,’ says Terry.

  ‘“Cartoon”?’ says one of the cave women. ‘What is “cartoon”?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ says Terry. ‘Just follow me.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough now!’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Just one more turn?’ says the inspector. ‘I love Barky!’

  ‘See, what did I tell you, Andy?’ says Terry. ‘Everybody loves Barky … even the inspector!’

  ‘We have to go,’ I say firmly. ‘We’ve got a building permit office to get to.’

  ‘But I haven’t taught the cave people about mixed media and installations … or performance art,’ says Terry.

  ‘Don’t rush them,’ I say. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that in the future. Come on!’

  We climb into the bin and Terry starts adjusting the chronometer. ‘I think I’ve got it this time,’ he says.

  ‘That’s what you said last time,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘The six and the five are working fine. It’s just the zeros I was having trouble with, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got them working nowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww …’

  CHAPTER 8

  MUMMY MADNESS

  We swirl through time once more until we feel the now-familiar falling sensation.

  Terry peeps out the top of the bin.

  ‘Can you see the building permit office?’ I say.

  ‘Um,’ he says, ‘does the building permit office look like a pyramid?’

  ‘No,’ says the inspector.

  ‘Then I think we might be in Ancient Egypt,’ says Terry. ‘All I can see is sand, a Sphinx, palm trees and a big gold-topped pyramid that we’re about to smash into.’

  Finally, we come to a stop. A crowd of stunned-looking Ancient Egyptians are staring at the bottom of our bin.

  ‘You idiots!’ says one of them. ‘You just squashed the pharaoh!’

  ’Uh-oh,’ says Terry. ‘I think we just squashed the pharaoh, whatever that is.’

  ‘That’s the king of Ancient Egypt!’ I say. ‘This is bad. Very bad.’

  The inspector shakes his head sadly. ‘If only people would take the trouble to install landing warning beepers on their time-travelling wheelie bins, this sort of unpleasant accident could easily be avoided.’

  The pharaoh lets out a loud moan.

  ‘He’s still alive!’ says Terry.

  ‘Quick, let’s get the bin off him,’ I say.

  We lift the bin off the pharaoh and help him to his feet.

  ‘Thank you!’ he says. ‘And now you must die!’

  ‘But we just saved your life!’ says Terry.

  ‘You also just squashed me with your sky chariot,’ says the pharaoh, ‘and the penalty for squashing the pharaoh is death. Guards—seize them!’

  ‘Now just hold on a minute!’ says the inspector.

  ‘Who are you?’ says the pharaoh.

  ‘Inspector Bubblewrap’s the name,’ says the inspector, ‘and inspecting buildings is my game.’ He hands the pharaoh his business card.

  The pharaoh looks worried. ‘You’re a building inspector?’ he says.

  ‘Yes!’ says Inspector Bubblewrap. ‘Do you have a current and valid building permit for this pyramid?’

  ‘Why … er … yes,’ says the pharaoh, ‘of course I do.’

  ‘May I see it?’ says the inspector.

  The pharaoh signals to a scribe, who brings over a scroll and hands it to Inspector Bubblewrap.

  The inspector unrolls it and examines it closely.

  ‘Is this your signature?’ he says to the pharaoh.

  ‘Yes,’ says the pharaoh. ‘I sign and issue all my building permits myself.’

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ says the inspector.

  ‘I’ve never heard of anybody signing their own building permits. I’m afraid I’m going to need you to fill out a few forms. It will take a few minutes of your valuable time. And I’ll help you along with a form-filling rhyme.’

  ‘I’ll need you to complete

  This building certificate.

  Use black ink or blue

  And I’d like it in triplicate.

  And don’t forget to include

  All your personal information:

  Your star sign, your weight

  And your marital situation.

  I’ll also require

  All your contact details:

  Your home phone, your address

  And both home and work emails.

  You’ll need approval from council

  So here’s an application.

  And if your neighbours object

  You’ll have to seek arbitration.

  I’ll need to see blueprints

  (From top to foundation)

  And a 5000-hieroglyph essay

  In support of your application.

  You’re an owner-builder,

  So I’ll need proof of your qualifications.

  Even a pharaoh

  Has to follow the reg
ulations.’

  I nudge the inspector to get his attention.

  ‘Is this really the best time to be worrying about whether the pharaoh has a permit for his pyramid?’ I whisper. ‘Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out how to avoid being put to death?’