18

We accidentally do something that looks a bit heroic-ish

We lay on the grass, looking up at the clouds, and tried to think of a super-plan—but before we could come up with anything, the shop owner burst through the door, shouting and pointing his stubby finger at us. “It is you, isn’t it? The outfits—they’re the same. It’s you, I know it is!”

We turned around to check if he was talking to somebody behind us, but we were the only people around.

Charlie swallowed the last of his candy bar. “What do you mean, it’s you?”

The shopkeeper was jumping from foot to foot, his face flushed pink. “Come in and see. Come quick!”

We followed him back into the shop. He pointed at the TV screen and clapped his pudgy hands together. “See, it is you, isn’t it?”

I froze.

He was right. It was us. On South Wales Today. Sitting on top of Albert.

“When you came in here I didn’t know you were genuine superheroes. I thought you were just kids in costumes.”

I was barely listening, because PC Mike had appeared on the screen. A woman in a bright blue suit and fluffy hair like a cloud held a microphone under his huge smiling mouth.

“I’m here with Mike Griffiths, the journalist who broke this miraculous good-news story. How many hits have you had since you put the story on Twitter?”

“Just over half a million in a few hours.”

“Half a million!” I shouted. It was hard to believe news had traveled so quickly, but the internet is a powerful thing. We later discovered the fluffy-hair woman was PC Mike’s second cousin. When he contacted her, she was over to his place in a flash, asking him questions like, “What do you think it is about this super-trio that has captured the country’s imagination?”

“So much, Carys. First, their bravery. The picture shows only one of the attackers, but they were outnumbered by ten to three—it’s a miracle really—”

This was the first of PC Mike’s humongous whoppers. As if there were even ten other people in Gileston.

“Second, they seemed to possess a superhuman strength—”

I mean . . . what?! The lies just seemed to trip off his tongue.

“And third, they appeared out of nowhere and then vanished just as quickly.”

Nothing about that bike ride felt quick.

“So we have no idea who these superheroes are?”

I held my breath.

“I believe one of them goes by the name of Charlie Ow. That’s all I have.”

“Thank you, Mike.” The fluffy-haired woman turned to face the camera. “I think we can all sleep better in our beds knowing there are some real-life superheroes out there protecting us. If you see them, please let us know. We’d love to talk to them! Now back to the studio.”

We stood staring at the screen while the weatherman told us it was going to remain hot and sunny with a small chance of superhero showers.

The flash of a camera snapped me out of my trance.

Dazzled, I said, “What are you doing, Mr. Shopkeeper, sir?”

“I’m tweeting this photo to South Wales Today. Real superheroes in my shop—think what it will do for business.” He disappeared behind the counter.

My instincts told me this was not a good idea, so I ran after him shouting, “We’re not real superheroes, honest.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, we’re not!”

“If Carys Griffiths from South Wales Today says you are, and I say you are, then you are, okay?”

It wasn’t okay because it wasn’t the truth, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t too bothered about that.

Unfortunately, what happened next didn’t exactly help my argument, as we ended up looking very superhero-ish by complete accident.

There was a low grumbling sound outside that made the shop windows vibrate. Outside, a person dressed all in leather had pulled up on a motorcycle. He looked like a Power Ranger who had gone to the dark side. I immediately thought it was the Gaffer and every muscle in my body clenched. In truth, I had such a violent whole-body reaction that I managed to give myself a wedgie. I think my butt must have contracted so hard that it temporarily swallowed part of my costume.

I watched terrified and slightly uncomfortable as the person got off the motorcycle and headed for the door of the shop. There was no time to hide. No time to run. Things were about to turn bad. Very bad. I knew this because of the following:

Clue 1: The biker did not remove his helmet after entering the shop.

Clue 2: He was holding a gun.

Clue 3: He said, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. If you would be so kind as to remain calm during the duration of this robbery, that would be most appreciated.”

I have to say, as far as robbers go, he was very polite. It sort of made you want to do as he asked. However, it turned out that the shopkeeper was not one for following instructions. He passed out immediately. We probably all should have done the same, but as it was, we remained one hundred percent conscious.

“Are you the Gaffer?” I stammered.

The helmet turned to me. “Who?”

I gulped. “Never mind.”

We weren’t being robbed by the Gaffer. We were being robbed by a completely different criminal. This, while not at the top of my list of things to do on a Sunday, did make me feel a little better.

The robber threw a duffle bag at Charlie. “Spiderman—may I call you Spiderman?”

Charlie didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Spiderman, may I trouble you to fill this with the contents of the register?”

Charlie didn’t reply, he just stood there looking scared and whimpering, which seemed like a reasonable thing to do in the circumstances.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that this is a gun and it is loaded.”

Ben gulped. I gulped. Charlie whimpered a little louder.

“So if you wouldn’t mind opening the register.”

There was an awkward pause and Ben had to nudge Charlie, who eventually jerked into action, stepped behind the counter, and rattled the register drawer. “I can’t. It’s locked. I don’t know how.”

“Could I trouble you to try again? Perhaps with a little more conviction?”

Charlie banged the register harder, then picked it up and gave it a good shake. “You can trouble me all you want, but it’s not opening.”

“I’m afraid it just won’t do to leave here empty-handed.” The robber didn’t sound impressed and I couldn’t help feeling that we were letting him down.

“Let me try.” Ben sidled next to Charlie and began pressing all the buttons on the cash register.

By now the robber was getting antsy, so I asked myself, What would Supergirl do? As I didn’t think I could bicycle-kick the gun out of his hands, I thought I could use my powers of persuasion instead, so I said, “Look, if it won’t open you could always help yourself to some chocolate bars instead?”

My suggestion didn’t go over too well because he said, “I’m not going to get very far on chocolate bars, miss. Now would someone please open the register before things become rather unpleasant.”

The atmosphere was getting tense. He clearly wasn’t going to leave until we had given him what he wanted, but the register would not open. Even when we dropped it on the floor.

Just when things looked like they might get unpleasant, Ben said, “What about this? It’s not money but it’s better than a chocolate bar.” He stuffed his hand down his costume. I had NO clue what he was about to pull out.

“It’s pure gold. Priceless. Been on the Antiques Roadshow and everything.”

My mouth fell open. Ben was holding one of the swan rings. I said, “Ben! You took that?”

He shrugged. “Thought we might need some collateral.”

“Why would we need collateral?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if we find ourselves in the middle of a hold-up situation.”

In the circumstances, I couldn’t really argue.

“Marvelous, that will do nicely.” The robber plucked the ring from Ben’s hand and held it up to the light to examine it. He must have liked what he saw because he tried to slip it into his pocket, but his leather pants were too tight, so he gave up and said, “A pleasure doing business with you.”

He waved his gun at us one more time and then disappeared out of the door. I heard the sound of the motorcycle engine and the squeal of tires on asphalt and he was gone.

After a few seconds I said, “Well, as far as hold-ups go, that wasn’t too bad.”

Ben kind of crumpled onto the floor like a deflating balloon and Charlie grabbed a giant chocolate bar from the shelf and bit into it without even taking the wrapper off.

The shop owner must have sensed it was a good time to come around, because he suddenly popped up from behind the counter and said, “Has he gone?”

Ben said, “Yeah, he’s gone.”

I wanted to say, No thanks to you.

The shopkeeper scrambled over to the cash register and pushed a button on the side and the drawer sprang open. And we all went, “Ahhhhh, that’s how it opens.”

“It’s all there! He didn’t take any money?”

“No, he didn’t take any money,” Ben said.

The shopkeeper turned to us, this strange look of awe in his eyes, and said, “It’s a miracle! You truly are superheroes.”

I could have tried to set him straight there and then, but I knew it would be a waste of time. And he was so grateful. I mean, really grateful. He kept shaking our hands and thanking us over and over again. He called us his miraculous superheroes so many times, we almost started to believe it. I guess, even though there had been no bicycle-kicks or shows of superhuman strength, a teeny tiny part of us felt like superheroes just for surviving.

The shopkeeper gave us a box of candy as a reward and as Ben was putting it into the basket of my bike he said to me, “You know what, Fred, if we can find a way out of a hold-up situation, chances are that we’ll be able to find Alan Froggley.”

And Charlie said, “Yeah, nothing can stop us.”

And you know what? I thought so too.