Imagine the tallest and most dangerous water slide in the world, towering above the skyline of London, England.
Imagine this structure was built by a famous explorer who died on his first slide down it.
Imagine you are at the top of this slide now, up in the clouds, hanging on for dear life, only twelve years old, and fearful of heights and water.
WELCOME TO THE FLUME!
Imagine the tallest and most dangerous water slide in the world, towering above the skyline of London, England.
Imagine this structure was built by a famous explorer who died on his first slide down it.
Imagine you are at the top of this slide now, up in the clouds, hanging on for dear life, only twelve years old, and fearful of heights and water.
WELCOME TO THE FLUME!
I’m not the kind of boy to show fear. Why would I, on a special trip like today? A trip arranged a month ago, to celebrate my birthday; or that’s what Captain said when he went ahead and booked it anyway. “A treat for you, Shanks,” he’d mumbled through his beard, whilst adding a pinch of salt to his tea. Of course, that only left me more questions.
Like, is it usual to face your greatest fear on your birthday? Is it cool for your friends to leave you high and dry? Is it normal for your uncle (who I’ve always known as ‘Captain’) to march you to the ticket gates near London Bridge, hand you a waterproof wristband, and explain he’ll see you in half an hour at Splashdown?
And really, is it a good idea to visit the Flume, the tallest and most terrifying water slide in Britain, no, not even Britain—in the whole world? The one they said should never have opened.
I’m at the top now, at the very highest peak, above the changing rooms at the Winching Platform, beyond the reach of the ultrafast lifts, past the sign warning about heart conditions and up those final giddy steps.
Honestly, this is the last place I thought I’d ever be, surrounded by musky dampness, only a glass barrier separating me from calamity. Clouds waft through a bruised sky, every puff of wind conspiring to blow me from the steel tower.
So I focus on what I can see between my bare toes, through gaps in the metal lattice: the skyscraper called The Shard, the Houses of Parliament, the sprawl of Oxford Street, buses resembling model toys, and thousands of tiny specks in the streets—people milling about, carefree, dry as you like.
My view starts to float. Better not to look. I’m not too clever with heights.
There’s only one attendant here, at the ‘Summit’. He wears a climbing harness hooked to his shorts. With his finger, he gestures me towards the mouth of the monstrous chute that snakes down over thirty-three minutes, to end at Spashdown, over a mile away at Waterloo.
I tremble; a mass of gooseflesh and nerves, wearing the swimming trunks I once ranted against. One jittery step forward and I grab the bar that I’ll use to launch myself down the slide.
They say you reach the speed of a motorbike.
They say one section is through the dark.
They say the Flume’s inventor, Mr Poppity, died the day of his first test run.
Well, I don’t want to die.
“I’m not a fish,” I whisper, through chattering teeth.
“Huh?” The attendant’s gaze is glued to a red lamp over the chute entrance. “What’s your name, lad?”
I flick a wet droplet from my arm. “Shanks.”
He nods. “Are you up for it, Shanks? Catch up with your mates, and those kids from earlier?”
“I’m n-n-not a fish,” I stutter, cursing my so-called friends. “Water is for fishes. Heights are for b-birds.”
“Fish,” he corrects me, as the lamp blinks orange. “Not fishes. Come on, you’re up— can’t bail on me again. Safe as a baby’s bath, this thing.”
Screams spiral below us. My head pounds.
The light above the chute flashes green. A buzzer sounds and I try not to flinch. I cling like a limpet to the cold metal bar. Maybe I can still pull out and descend the fifty-two steps and three ultrafast lifts back to the Winching Platform?
The man checks his watch. “Come on, lad. Down you go now. Give it some welly and swing yourself! I’ll have a queue when the next lift gets up.”
I clamp my eyes shut, squatting in the awful water until immersed to my knees, knowing there’s no return, my heart throbbing into my neck. “I’m not a fish!”
“You’re a weird one,” he mutters. “Off with you, before I shove you down myself!”
I un-peel one finger... then another... until only two fingers grasp the bar.
The current tugs at my feet, beckoning me into the dreaded slide.
It’s now or never.
So I take the biggest breath of my life, open my eyes...
and
let
go...
Flume is a middle grade novel, written by an author who goes by the name 'Bigfoot'. This is the author's second middle grade novel, following on from their previous publication, The Projectionist.
Told through the first person perspective of Shanks, Flume follows this young boy who receives a ticket to ride the infamous water slide Flume for his birthday. Set in central London, England, this hair-raising ride involves many twists and turns and maybe an abandoned boat or two, as Shanks and his friends navigate this perilous ride and the mysteries that surround its creator. One thing is for certain, this will be a twelfth birthday Shanks will never forget.
To say this story is fantastical would be an understatement. To truly get into the story readers have to put aside logic, such as why a water-based ride would be open to the public in the middle of a thunderstorm, given the slide is routinely hit by lightening. Then there's the location aspects, such as the ride being high in the sky and skirting around The Shard, a notable London landmark on the edge of the River Thames. By the time we're told that the ride's inventor, Mr Poppity, was perceived to have done a "bodge job" on building the ride, only to go missing three summer ago in mysterious circumstances, then as a reader you just have to accept everything at face value and go along with it. Still, there's being fantastical, and then there's being downright bizarre. Sometimes detail is scarce, other times it feels like an info dump.
As a reader, there doesn't feel like there is any strong plot or character motive driving the story. If Shanks is so terrified of this ride, why does he feel obliged to jump down it? There isn't quite enough at stake to hook readers in from the offset, instead the storyline only sort of comes into focus about a quarter to a third in.
For its intended target age audience of middle grade, Flume misses the mark when taking into account the lack of a strong storyline that drives the plot forwards in a meaningful way.
AEB Reviews