CABBAGE BOY

Finished at last! 

My latest book is a tragi-comedy for Young Adults (14-18 years). It's a little more off-beat than my previous novels and tells the story of an insecure and lonely boy and his growing relationship with a mutant cabbage.

Here's an excerpt from Chapter Two:

It must have followed me home last night - or sniffed out my trail this morning. I dodged down below the level of the sink unit.

'What's up?' asked Becca, my sister. She's always late down on Sundays, having become an evangelical vegetarian. She stared reproachfully at Dad who was still hoovering up my bacon and sausage.

'Just doing my exercises,' I said.

She came to stand beside me at the window.

'Bloody hell!'

'Sssh!'

'What is it?' she whispered.

'It came from Dad's allotment. Last night I think it ate a load of his cabbages.'

'How does it eat? It's got no mouth.'

'No idea.'

But then the thing squirted some sort of slime from its nose on to Mum's favourite rose bush. The bush dissolved into a steaming puddle of sludge. We watched, transfixed, as it sucked up the green slime. After a moment's hesitation it expelled it again with a fart so loud it nearly shattered the window.

'Oh God, that's disgusting!' said Becca.

Mum and Dad hadn't noticed anything. Dad had finished his own and my fry-up and was sunk in gloom again. Mum was trying to cheer him up with the news that yet another Line Dancing Class was opening up in Swindon. They're both passionate about line dancing. They already attend two classes and a Saturday night session at the local Sports and Social Club. They've got all the gear. Stetsons, embroidered shirts, cowboy boots. Dad has a belt with a huge silver buckle and Mum has a blonde wig that makes Dolly Parton's look like a bargain buy.

Two or three times a year when there's a special event - the anniversary of Hank Williams' passing or anything to do with Dolly Parton, Mum's idol - they insist on Becca and me going with them. It's so embarrassing, just thinking about it makes me cringe. If anyone at school ever found out, I'd be a joke forever.

'What are you going to do about it?' Becca said.

Now Dad's seen the evidence at the allotment, he doesn't have to know I was there, does he? But how could I explain the thing's presence right outside our kitchen window? I didn't have to, I realised. It could have followed Dad home this morning. Which meant Chloe and me were in the clear. Sorted.

I shrugged.

'Me? It's not my responsibility, is it? Why does it have to be me?'

'Well, don't expect me to help. I'm just a girl.'

Becca makes a lot of noise about equality and women's rights, but when it suits her - like now - she can switch easily to the frail helpless little female act. It takes pretty good acting, seeing that at seventeen, 5'8" in height and probably weighing a good 160 lbs, she looks more like a female rugby player.

'If it's up to anyone, it should be Dad,' I said. ' He's always going on about the secret ingredient in his manure that makes his stuff bigger than anyone else's.'

'What? You think that's just an overgrown vegetable? With arms and legs and revolting habits?'

'What else can it be?'

'An alien from another planet?'

'Don't be daft. Even if there are aliens flying around, why would they want to land on an allotment in Swindon? No, I reckon it's a mutation - although even that's weird enough.'

We watched as the thing sampled other plants in Mum's precious garden. It seemed to enjoy the herbs and some of the ornamental grasses but quickly regurgitated a couple of delphiniums, some peonies and an orange day lily. Mum and Dad had disappeared upstairs, probably to try on their line dancing outfits ready for the new class.

'They're going to go mad when they see this. You'll have to tell them,' said Becca.

'I don't want to tell Dad.'

'Why not?'

'I don't want to upset him. He'll think it's his fault.'

Becca stared at me. 'No. You don't want to tell him because you were there last night. With Chloe.' She smirked when she saw my face. 'My little brother. At it again!'

'I'm not - we're not - I just - '

'Don't worry, I won't say anything.'

One of Mum's chickens had escaped from its run and was wandering across the lawn. It took a tentative peck or two at the thing's feet. A piece fell off. The chicken gobbled it up, then wandered off again.

'Well, whatever it is, it doesn't seem to mind being eaten. I think it's a vegetarian,' said Becca. 'Like me.'

'Oh, so you're kindred spirits, are you? OK, in that case you can go out there and tell it to clear off.'

'No way! What if I'm wrong? Maybe Dad's cabbages and Mum's flowers are just for starters. How do we know we won't be the main course?' She looked at her watch. 'Well, I'll leave you to it. I've got revision to do.'

Sisters! I thought bitterly. Neither use nor ornament, as my Gran used to say about Grandad before he ran off with a widow from the Silver Threads Choir.

Mum and Dad were still upstairs. I knew it would be at least half an hour before they came down again.

The thing showed no sign of leaving, and Mum's back garden was already a wreck. I didn't really care if Dad lost a few cabbages but Mum loved her garden. She spent hours mowing the lawn, trimming the edges, spraying the roses, planting annuals and generally preparing for the neighbourhood Best Garden Competition. There was no chance of her winning this year.

If I'd told Dad last night, he would have killed the thing right away. How? Bashed it on the head, knocked it unconscious? Hacked it apart with an axe? Chopped its arms and legs off?

So what? It's just an overgrown vegetable, I told myself. But I didn't really believe that. It moved, it walked, perhaps it had a brain of sorts, perhaps even a heart. It was probably the first of its kind, and not just here in Swindon. In the world. It could be a really important new species. Scientists could set up laboratories to observe, experiment, reproduce them. DIY gardeners could have a go. There could be a growing market for magic manure, produced artificially in huge quantities. Dad could become famous as the creator of the first independently mobile cabbage.