Mr Gum and the Goblins

  EGMONT

  We bring stories to life

  Mr Gum and the Goblins

  First published 2007 by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street London W8 6SA

  Text copyright © 2007 Andy Stanton

  Illustration copyright © 2007 David Tazzyman

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

  First e-book edition 2011

  ISBN 978 14052 5929 3

  www.egmont.co.uk/mrgum

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For Tom Ralis and his class at Cherry Orchard Primary

  Meet some of the townsfolk of Lamonic Bibber

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  1 In the Dead Of Winter

  2 Talk of the Devil

  3 In the Court of the Goblin King

  4 You’re A Bad Man, Mr Launderette!

  5 The Meeting at the Stone Table

  6 The Great Gifts

  7 The Three Impossible Challenges

  8 Night on Goblin Mountain

  9 Polly and Friday in the Cave

  10 The Tunnel Song

  11 Heroes in the Snow

  12 The Fruit Chew of Babylon

  13 The Truth About It All

  About the Author

  Also By

  Praise

  Chapter 1

  In The Dead Of Winter

  IT was the Dead Of Winter and the little town of Lamonic Bibber lay under a blanket of snow and ice. Everywhere you looked, there was snow and ice. On the trees – snow and ice. On the ground – snow and ice. Inside the Museum of Snow and Ice – snow and ice. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember.

  Inside the inns and taverns the men folk sat around blazing log fires, drinking their ale and telling stories of never-to-be-forgotten heroes like Whatsisname and That Tall Man In The Shirt Who Killed All Those Dragons. In the houses, mothers put their young ones to bed, soothing them with gentle lullabies about fierce lions and crocodiles. In a little cottage by the meadow, a hobbit sat reading The Lord of the Rings and microwaving his feet to keep warm. ’Twas the Dead Of Winter, all right.

  The streets of Lamonic Bibber were quiet at that late hour but presently there came the sound of footsteps as three shadowy figures turned into the high street. And now I will tell you who they were, for I have seen them before – and perhaps you know them too.

  The leader was Friday O’Leary, a wise old man who knew the secrets of Time and Space. He carried a lantern which cast a ghostly yellow light on the icy cobblestones. Next came a nine-year-old girl called Polly. She too carried a lantern and it shone brave and true, just like her pure strong heart. And last of all came little Alan Taylor, the Headmaster of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor. He was a gingerbread man with electric muscles and he was only 15.24 centimetres tall. Alan Taylor was far too small to carry a lantern, but he had coated an acorn in glow-in-the-dark paint and that was almost as good.

  ‘’Tis late, friends,’ whispered Friday O’Leary as the church bells rang for ten o’clock, belting out like absolute marshmallows in the wintry night. ‘We should be getting home, for who knows what strange spirits are about in the Dead Of Winter?’

  ‘There are no strange spirits, kind Friday,’ chuckled Alan Taylor. ‘Methinks you have been spending too much time in the taverns, listening to the idle tales of drunken fools!’

  ‘Hey,’ said Polly. ‘Why’s everyone a-talkin’ all funny like in weird old books? We only done came out to gets a takeaway kebab.’

  But just then a horrible wailing noise rose on the wind like an out-of-tune opera singer being dragged down a blackboard. Polly and Alan Taylor jumped in fright and Friday did a dozen press-ups in terror.

  ‘WURP!’ he trembled. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I gots no idea,’ gulped Polly. ‘But I don’t likes the sound of that sound one little bit.’

  ‘What if . . .’ squeaked Alan Taylor, bravely weeing himself in fear. ‘What if it’s Mr Gum?’

  Now, at the mention of that name they all went very quiet, because there was nothing worse than Mr Gum, not even accidentally falling into a volcano full of history teachers. For Mr Gum and his no-good friend Billy William the Third were the worst criminals Lamonic Bibber had ever seen. And they had done some of the most shocking things of all time, including:

  1. Trying to poison a massive whopper of a dog called Jake to death and destruction

  2. Trying to steal a billion pounds off poor little Alan Taylor

  3. Tons of other stuff I can’t think of at the moment

  ‘But Alan Taylor, no one’s seen Mr Gum for ages,’ said Polly.

  ‘Nonetheless, he might have come back,’ replied Friday gravely. ‘For as the famous saying goes – “He might have come back.” Let us investigate!’

  And the three friends set off to see what was what, their lanterns swinging hopefully against the darkness. With each step they took the wailing grew louder, until –

  ‘It’s coming from the alley behind Mrs Lovely’s sweetshop,’ said Friday, and even as he said those words, a hunched-up figure appeared in the narrow passage, staggering towards them with outstretched arms like a mummy. Not the nice type of mummy, obviously. The type with dusty old bandages who’s always chasing you through museums at night because you dug them up out of their pyramid because you were a scientist and that’s what scientists do.

  ‘But hold on,’ frowned Polly. ‘We haven’t been messin’ around in no pyramids lately. That can’t be a mummy after all. Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s Mrs Lovely! An’ she’s been all duffed up an’ mangled!’

  ‘NO!’ cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue. ‘NO!’ he cried into the cold, cold night. ‘NOOOO!’

  Chapter 2

  Talk of the Devil

  But alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and she collapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.

  ‘What happened to thee?’ Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?’

  ‘Save your questions, Friday,’ advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.’

  So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:

  Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.

  ‘DEMONS!’ cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘’Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!’

  ‘You’re right, Jack!’ shrieked another. ‘’Tis demons for sure!’

  And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.

  ‘Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘We’re not demons.’

  ‘Not even slightly?�
�� asked one of the men folk anxiously.

  ‘No,’ said Polly firmly. ‘You lot’s drunk too much beer an’ it’s turned your brains all fuzzy an’ full of bad ’maginations. Now go home, men folk, an’ get some sleep. An’ don’t blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘OK, nine-year-old girl,’ said the men folk, ‘you’re the boss, for some reason.’ And off home they went.

  ‘I do apologise about all that demon talk,’ said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs. ‘But though they were drunk, the men folk were right to be afraid. You never know WHO’s going to come through the door in this terrible season, when spirits and ghouls are at large. Why, only last week an evil skeleton came in and did a poo on the carpet. How I hate the Dead Of Winter!’ he exclaimed. And the Innkeeper showed the heroes to a cosy little bedroom with wooden floorboards, bowed once and disappeared back downstairs.

  With great care, Friday dumped Mrs Lovely down on the little bed. Polly fetched a flannel and gently she scrubbed the slime from Mrs Lovely’s goodly face. And Alan Taylor hopped up on to her chin and gently he flossed her goodly teeth.

  ‘I shall take first watch,’ said Friday, pulling up a chair. ‘If she wakes I will wake you too. But until then, she must not be disturbed. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he sometimes liked to do.

  At once Mrs Lovely’s eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright in bed like a startled panda caught shoplifting bamboo.

  ‘Whaa? Eh? Boing?!’ she gabbled, looking around in confusion. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Fear not, Mrs L,’ exclaimed Friday, ‘For ’tis I, your beloved husband, me.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Friday,’ said Mrs Lovely weakly. ‘What’s going on?’

  But suddenly she caught her breath and drew the bedcover to her cheek in terror.

  ‘Goblin Mountain!’ she murmured in the flickering candlelight. ‘Now I remember!’

  ‘Tell us your tale, dearest wife-face,’ said Friday, tenderly clasping her nose to his. ‘But will you do it as a song?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Now is not the time for songs, my love,’ replied Mrs Lovely. ‘Besides, I’m all weak and feeble. I’m just going to say it normally.’

  ‘Bah,’ sulked Friday – but Mrs Lovely was determined to tell her tale her own way.

  ‘It was like this,’ she began. ‘You know how I’m always after unusual herbs to make my sweets? Well, the best ones grow up on Goblin Mountain. So, early this morning, up I did climb to get at those herbs. But soon a blizzard whipped up. I couldn’t see a thing – and then, suddenly, I found myself under attack from creatures unknown! They bit and scratched and I thought I was doomed, but somehow I fought my way loose and escaped. After that I don’t remember anything and now here I am safe and sound, hooray.’

  ‘What do you thinks them creatures was?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Lovely. ‘That’s why they were creatures unknown. But like I say, it happened on Goblin Mountain, just outside the Goblin Cave, where the Goblin River runs swift and blue.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Friday thoughtfully, twirling his famous imaginary detective’s moustache . . . ‘Goblin Mountain . . . Goblin Cave . . . Hmm . . . Goblins . . . Goblins . . . It all points to one thing. Mrs Lovely,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘it was badgers who attacked you. A gang of wild badgers driven mad by the cold winter and too much sugar!’

  ‘We’ll gets ’em!’ cried Polly, sticking her head out of the window towards Goblin Mountain. ‘Oi! Badgers!’ she shouted, just in case they could hear over long distances like whales or telephones. ‘You gone too far this time, you stripy rascals! We gonna come an’ sort you out!’

  During all this Alan Taylor had been sitting in an ashtray on the bedside table, listening carefully. And now it was his turn to speak. For he knew all about the natural world, and that was why he was the headmaster of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor.

  ‘I don’t think it was badgers,’ he said. ‘You see, badgers mainly come out at night and Mrs Lovely was attacked by day. Also, badgers tend to attack small mammals such as stoats, voles and marmots (a type of large ground squirrel). They hardly ever attack Mrs Lovely. You know what I think it was?’

  ‘Badgers?’ asked Friday, who hadn’t really been listening properly.

  ‘No,’ said Alan Taylor, ‘I think it was goblins.’

  ‘Goblins?!’ whispered Polly in fright.

  ‘Goblins?!’ moaned Mrs Lovely fearfully.

  ‘Goblins,’ nodded Alan Taylor gravely, and the moon slid out from behind a cloud and its light spilled into the room like a long skeletal finger. And from up high on Goblin Mountain, they seemed to hear horrible laughter, it was probably just their imagination but it gave ’em goosebumps all the same.

  Chapter 3

  In the Court of the Goblin King

  So let us go now, far, far from the room at the tavern where our heroes sit covered in goosebumps. Far, far from the high street, where Martin Launderette is working on a VERY SECRET INVENTION which probably won’t get explained until a bit later. Far, far from the woods on the edge of town, where Friday’s secret cottage lies hidden. Far, far from Lamonic Bibber and away we go, over the frozen fields and streams, until we come to a place where the snow falls like Frankenstein’s dandruff and the wind howls like Dracula stubbing his big toe on a coffee table. Where the way is hard and steep and twisty, and where no sunlight ever seems to fall – Goblin Mountain!

  Up, up the cold, bare mountainside we go, almost to the very top, until we come to a horrible gaping hole, all ragged and torn from the rock. And there is a terrible din coming from that hole, like nothing ever heard before. For ’tis Goblin Cave, and ’tis ram packed full of . . . GOBLINS!

  Big ones, weeny ones, sort of

  in-betweeny ones. Goblins!

  Bald ones, hairy ones, dirty great big

  scary ones. Goblins!

  Giant ones, tiny ones, nasty little

  spiny ones. Goblins!

  Stinky ones, clean ones, not really,

  they were all stinky.

  GOBLINS!

  Yes, wherever you looked, it was tails and spikes and fins and fur and extra arms and knobbly knees and all sorts. One of the goblins even had two heads, and sat there constantly arguing with himself, no he didn’t, yes he did, no he didn’t.

  Oh, and talk about badly behaved! Those goblins were always up to mischief – scratching and biting, hanging from the ceiling and gobbing on the ones below, cheating at Monopoly, you name it. The only time they ever shut up was when the Goblin King arrived to give his commands.

  And there he sat, right in the middle of all that chaos, sprawled on a great throne made from a rusty dentist’s chair he’d found on the mountainside one afternoon. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his long cruel fingers dripped with silver rings he’d stolen off old-age pensioners. And in his big red beard sat a dark green emerald, gleaming nastily. My word, those goblins loved that big fat jewel! ‘SHINY FING!’ they’d cry whenever it caught the light. ‘SHINY FING! SHINY FING! SHINY FINNNNG!’ All their shouting drove the Goblin King crazy, but he had to put up with it. It was just part of the job.

  At the King’s side stood his partner in dirt, a shady character known only as Burger Wizard the Third. He wore a robe made from an old sack which said LOW QUALITY PORK CHOPS, and he was smoking a pipe full of mud.

  ‘Fancy a little puff, me old Goblin King?’ coughed the Burger Wizard, brandishing the pipe. ‘It’s really nice,’ he lied through another cough.

  ‘Get lost, phlegmy,’ replied the Goblin King. ‘Where’s me supper? I’m starvin’ me face off here!’

  ‘No problem,’ said the Burger Wizard, or B.W. for short. He reached into his filthy robe and pulled out a bunch of steaming chicken entrails.

  ‘Delicious,’ growled the Goblin King, swallowing them down whole. ‘Now. I got important Kingy stuff to do.

  ‘Mighty
Goblin Army!’ he commanded. ‘Tell me your news, or I’ll give you a Chinese burn!’

  At this the Captain of the Goblin Army ran forward, his Lieutenant at his side.

  ‘News gooood,’ Captain Ankles reported. ‘We attacked oldd womman an’ duffed her upp!’

  ‘Who cares about some stupid old woman?’ roared the Goblin King. ‘What I wants to know is how me evil plan’s comin’ along! You built that tunnel yet?’

  ‘Nearly finnished!’ squealed the Lieutenant, whose name was Oink Balloon. ‘One more day diggging, thenn we finally there!’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ snorted the Goblin King. ‘Now for a nice long snooze.’ He closed his eyes and put his feet up –

  ‘SHINY FING! SHINY FINNNNG!’ screamed the goblins, pointing at the emerald in his beard and jumping up and down like carrot cakes.

  ‘Shabba me whiskers,’ scowled the King. ‘These creatures is noisy. Whoever thought leadin’ a Goblin Army would be such a bother?’

  Chapter 4

  You’re A Bad Man, Mr Launderette!

  The next morning dawned cold and clear in Lamonic Bibber. Martin Launderette was up early to work on his VERY SECRET INVENTION when Jonathan Ripples happened to stroll by. He was eating a very large sandwich filled with smaller sandwiches.

  Now, Jonathan Ripples might have been fat – in fact, he definitely was – but he wasn’t stupid.

  ‘Ho, Martin, what’s all this?’ he asked, pointing towards the strange device. There were tubes and pipes coming off it and a big motor attached to the back and a wide round hole in the front.

  ‘It’s just a washing machine,’ said Martin Launderette innocently. ‘I do run a launderette, you know.’