What's for Dinner Mr Gum? Read online

  What’s

  for Dinner,

  Mr Gum?

  by

  Andy Stanton

  Illustrated by

  David Tazzyman

  EGMONT

  Copyright

  What’s for Dinner Mr Gum?

  First published 2009 by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street London W8 6SA

  Text copyright © 2009 Andy Stanton

  Illustration copyright © 2009 David Tazzyman

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 4052 4824 2

  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.

  First e-book edition 2011

  ISBN: 978-1-4052-59323

  For Andy, Kathy and Ellie

  And for Bob, the fattest cat in L.A.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1 Off to the Seaside!

  Chapter 2 Butcher Shop Blues

  Chapter 3 Billy on the Trail

  Chapter 4 Greasy Ian’s House of Slops

  Chapter 5 Billy Sows the Seeds of His Revenge

  Chapter 6 The Incident of Billy and The Flies

  Chapter 7 The Dinnertime Wars

  Chapter 8 The Heroes Return

  Chapter 9 ‘Only Love Can Save Us Now’

  Chapter 10 The Train Down to London

  Chapter 11 Olde London Town

  Chapter 12 Thora Gruntwinkle

  Chapter 13 The Heroes Return. Again. Plus There’s One More of Them This Time

  Chapter 14 The Power of Love

  Chapter 15 All’s Well That Ends Good

  What, No Jake the Dog?

  Jake Gets a Job

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  PRAISE FOR Mr Gum

  Some of the crazy old townsfolk from Lamonic Bibber

  Chapter 1

  Off to the Seaside!

  This is the story of the Battle of Lamonic Bibber, or as it became known, the Dinnertime Wars or, as it didn’t become known, Ghostbusters III. And know this, my friends – it was a terrible conflict indeed. Like all wars it was full of madness and anger. Like all wars there were courageous heroes and dastardly villains. Like practically all wars there was a dirty little monkey called Philip the Horror.

  But I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering how the Dinnertime Wars got started in the first place, aren’t you?

  ‘How did it all start?’ you say.

  ‘Where did it begin?’ you ask.

  ‘What do you mean, a monkey?’ you enquire.

  ‘Shut up,’ I reply. ‘Stop bothering me with all these questions and I will tell you.’

  It all started on a Friday. And not only did it start on a Friday but it started with a Friday – that wonderful old gentleman Friday O’Leary, hero of many an adventure and three times winner of the Lamonic Bibber Women’s Underwater Badminton Championship.

  And here’s a quick word from Friday himself:

  ‘BREADBIN’

  Thanks, Friday.

  But hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over. This story doesn’t just start with Friday O’Leary. Because along with him were his good friends Polly and Alan Taylor.

  Now, Polly was a little girl with the sort of sandy-coloured hair that makes you happy to be alive and the sort of heart-coloured heart which is so brave it would fight a lion if that lion happened to deserve it. For instance, if he had been trying to rob pencils. Polly was only nine but she was a hero through and through.

  And as for Alan Taylor, he was a gingerbread man with electric muscles and he was 16.24cm tall because he’d grown a centimetre since the last book he was in.

  ‘Maybe I’ll grow into a real man one day,’ he was fond of saying. But that was impossible.

  Or was it?

  Yes.

  But never mind. For the most part, Alan Taylor was a jolly little twinkle and girls liked him because he was cute and they could dress him up like a doll and make him do tea parties.

  ‘Oh, you are a darlin’ little marshy,’ laughed Polly now, bending down to kiss Alan Taylor on his juicy raisin eye. ‘An’ this is gonna be the best holiday ever!’

  ‘That’s right,’ laughed Friday O’Leary, throwing his hat up in the air. It landed on a cloud and the cloud laughed so hard it turned into a lovely apple. ‘We’re off to the seaside and we won’t be back for weeks!’

  ‘Hoorays!’ said Polly.

  ‘Huzzooof!’ said Alan Taylor.

  ‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ yelled Friday, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘It’s seaside time for us!’

  And off they toddled down the friendly road and the sun shone down and the trees were brown and there wasn’t a frown in the whole wide world, just Friday, a biscuit and a happy little girl.

  Chapter 2

  Butcher Shop Blues

  Deep inside Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats someone stood in the dismal shadows, watching the heroes go. It was that appalling butcher, Billy William the Third.

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ grinned Billy now. ‘With them lot of do-gooders gone down the seaside to do their sunbathin’ an’ their sandcastles, the way is clear for evil. For once me an’ me old pal Mr Gum’ll be free to do our plans in peace. An’ then we’ll RULE this stupid town!’

  And that’s how it went in Lamonic Bibber. Billy William and Mr Gum were always trying to hatch their scoundrel plans and the heroes were always squashing them back down. So it was no wonder that seeing Polly and her friends leaving town put Billy in a good evil mood.

  No more heroes any more!

  he sang.

  No more heroes any more! They walked right past me butcher’s door! Now me an’ Mr Gum’s gonna rule the roost! What’s a roost, I don’t even know? But who even cares, cos the heroes are gone! An’ now I’m gonna sing me song! Yeah yeah yeah yeah, nothin’ can stop us! Not even an interferin’ diplodocus.

  As Billy sang he beat out a rhythm on the counter with a pair of chicken drumsticks. He closed his eyes and pretended he was a rock star guy called Space Age Billy and the Meat Brigade.

  No more heroes any more! They walked right past me butcher’s door!

  Me name is Space Age Billy, I’m a funky man!

  He was Number 1 in the charts and all the girls fancied him. He was the best!

  No more heroes any more! Mr Gum an’ Billy’s gonna win for sure!

  But hang on. Just where was Mr Gum exactly?

  Billy opened his eyes and snapped back to reality. He must have been singing for hours. It was getting dark outside. An owl flew past the window. Then another owl flew past. Then Dracula and his friend Clive walked by on their way to the pub. It was night time – but still no Mr Gum.

  ‘That’s funty,’ said Billy. (You see, that was how Billy William pronounced the word ‘funny’.) ‘Mr Gum always comes here for his Friday night dinner. He loves feastin’ on the entrails an’ stale burgers what I feed him. In all these years he ain’t never once been late.’

  Billy’s pet flies buzzed around his head, picking at the tiny morsels of meat he kept in his ears for their treats.

  The clock on the wall ticked.

  Billy waited patiently, but inside his heart was slowly sinking like a battle ship. Until finally he had to admit it. Mr Gum wasn’t going to show.

  ‘Well, that’s it. I can’t wait no longer,’ yawned Billy, his butcher’s
cap drooping wearily in the gloom. ‘There’s nothin’ for it but to shut up shop an’ call it a night.’

  ’I don’t get it,’ said Billy as he tucked himself into his freezing cold bed. ‘A whole town to muck up an’ no Mr Gum to muck it up with! It ain’t no fun doin’ plans on me own.’

  Billy looked up at the poster on the wall. It was his secret joy. It was a pin-up of Thora Gruntwinkle, the Butcher Queen of Olde London Town. She was holding a meat cleaver dripping with guts.

  ‘Imagine if you an’ me was married, Thora me darlin’,’ said Billy. ‘Then I wouldn’t be lonely no more. An’ I wouldn’t need no Mr Gum neither,’ he added spitefully.

  Billy blew out his bedside candle and soon he was fast asleep, sucking his thumb and dreaming of punting downstream with Thora Gruntwinkle at his side, feeding her chicken livers and gently stroking her long red fingernails.

  Chapter 3

  Billy on the Trail

  Another lonely night down at the butcher’s. The flies buzzed lazily through the murk. Billy sat with his feet on the counter, staring up at the clock.

  Seven o’clock.

  Seven thirty.

  Eight o’clock.

  If only I could tell the time, thought Billy. Then at least there’d be some point starin’ up at the clock.

  But he couldn’t. AND THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU BUNK OFF SCHOOL LIKE BILLY, SO WATCH IT.

  ‘Well,’ sighed Billy as the evening wore on. ‘Looks like Mr Gum ain’t comin’ in tonight neither, the lousy stinkin’ – hey, there he is!’ he cried suddenly. ‘Me best pal in the whole world what I’d never say a bad word about! He’s back!’

  And yes! There was Mr Gum now, creeping along the high street in his hobnail boots. His big red beard blazed like a beacon in the twilight. His bloodshot eyes darted cunningly around, looking for trouble. His dusty jacket flapped out behind him like a bad wizard’s cloak. And he was licking his lips greedily. He wanted the scoffs.

  ‘An’ I’m the one to give him them scoffs,’ grinned Billy. ‘I’m gonna feed him up like a champion! Everythin’s back to normal.’

  But that’s where Billy was wrong. Mr Gum walked straight past Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats. He crossed over the road, kicked a beer can at a nightingale, and disappeared round the corner.

  Billy did a thought. Then, without a second thought, he slunk out of the butcher’s shop. Taking care to keep to the shadows and to not yell out things like, ‘HEY, MR GUM! I’M FOLLOWING YOU!’ Billy crept after his horrible old pal.

  ‘Shabba me whiskers!’ he heard Mr Gum mutter up ahead. ‘I’m gonna be late for me dinner!’

  Oho! Billy nodded to himself. ‘Late for dinner is it? I knew he was up to something! But what? It’s a mittersy.’ (You see, that was how Billy William pronounced the word ‘mystery’.)

  Mr Gum picked his way through the quiet streets, his hobnail boots clomp-clomp-clompin’ on the cobblestones. And behind him rode Billy William on his magic unicorn, Elizabeth.

  ‘Hang on,’ frowned Billy. ‘I ain’t got no magic unicorn called Elizabeth.’

  Mr Gum picked his way through the quiet streets, his hobnail boots clomp-clomp-clompin’ on the cobblestones. And behind him crept Billy William. There were no magic unicorns in sight.

  By now Mr Gum had come to the stone steps that led down to the old canal. Mr Gum did a big crafty look and went tiptoeing down the slimy steps. Billy did an even bigger crafty look and went tiptoeing after him. Mr Gum did an ENORMOUS crafty look and went tiptoeing along the canal towpath. Billy did an even BIGGER crafty look which was so large it didn’t even fit on his face. But somehow he managed it because that’s how determined he was to look craftier than Mr Gum.

  The two bad men tiptoed along the canal, the dirty water lapping softly in the evening breeze. Many years ago the canal had been a glorious waterway, transporting over 90% of all England’s emails down to Cornwall. But in these modern times all the email transportation was done over the Internet and no one used the canal any more, except to dump shopping trolleys in. The water was brown and useless. If you drank it you would die and I should know because I drank it once and I died.

  But now a new smell came to Billy William’s long nose above the stench of the stagnant, brown water. It was the smell of old cooking oil and chip fat. And suddenly a cold chill passed over him as he realised where Mr Gum was headed.

  ‘No,’ whispered Billy. ‘It couldn’t be . . . It’s too upsettin’ to even imagine . . .’

  But there it was. A fizzing neon sign, which blinked and buzzed in the darkness like a sinister fig.

  Chapter 4

  Greasy Ian’s House of Slops

  ‘No,’ whispered Billy as Mr Gum approached the buzzing neon sign. Despite what he was seeing, Billy prayed he was wrong. Surely Mr Gum wasn’t really going to eat his dinner elsewhere? Surely he wasn’t really going to eat at the dirtiest kebab shop known to man or beast – Greasy Ian’s House of Slops.

  Billy watched as Mr Gum stole one last glance around him. Then swift as a crab, the sneaky old beardy crawled in through a little cat flap set into the rusted metal door. Billy crept up to the window as close as he dared. He had to know for sure.

  ‘Oi! Greasy Ian!’ Mr Gum was yelling now. ‘I wants me dinner an’ I wants it quick smart!’

  Billy looked on as the man behind the counter turned slowly around. He was a terrifying bulk of a fellow with boils all over his face and brains. There was a long scar on his left arm from his days as a barbed-wire salesman and one of his hands was made of brass after a terrible accident involving a chainsaw, some superglue and a brass hand.

  ‘Mr Gum,’ grinned Greasy Ian, beads of sweat rolling down his blotchy purple face. ‘I knew ye’d be back. Once ye’ve had one o’ ma doner kebabs ye’re hooked for life!’

  ‘It’s true, Greasy Ian,’ laughed Mr Gum. ‘I been thinkin’ ’bout ’em all week. The meat, the sauce, them little polystyrene boxes you puts ’em in what ruins up the environment – it’s drivin’ me mad an’ I gotta have more! MORE! MORE! MORE! LESS! I mean, MORE!’

  ‘Well, yer in luck, ye big dribblin’ demon,’ leered Greasy Ian. ‘I’m cookin’ up a storm tonight! So what’ll it be? The usual, aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Mr Gum. ‘A blimmin’ enormous kebab drippin’ with tons of grey sauce so it goes all over me clothes.’

  ‘Comin’ right up,’ said Greasy Ian. He twirled his carving knife and began hacking into the enormous slab of meat that was turning slowly on the spit behind him.

  And who was turning the spit? Yes. It was that monkey I told you about earlier.

  ‘Philip the Horror!’ gasped Billy William outside. ‘So the rumours were true – he really does exist!’

  And what a dreadful little beast that monkey was. His eyes were filled with a terrible intelligence which was almost human and his tail was filled with whatever monkey’s tails are filled with. He wore a scrappy little t-shirt but no trousers because he enjoyed letting his little farts out so much and, as he turned the spit, he jumped up and down, chattering in the Language of the Monkeys.

  ‘Faster!’ growled Greasy Ian as he sheared off long, grey, curly strips of meat. ‘Faster, Philip, faster!’

  ‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHATTER!’ cried Philip the Horror as he turned the handle, faster and faster and faster yet. ‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHEE!’

  And as Billy William gazed through the window, great billows of steam rose in the shop and Greasy Ian’s face was grinning through the haze, and the flames rose higher and the meat whizzed round and the flames rose higher and the meat whizzed round and the flames rose higher and the meat whizzed round, round and around and aroooooouuuuuunddddd . . .

  The meat turned round and the monkey chattered!

  Down at Greasy Ian’s that was all that mattered! The monkey chattered and the meat turned round!

  And Mr Gum laughed to hear that sound!

  And the chip fat bubbled and the night was on fire With Mr G’s kebab desire! And
the night was on fire and the chip fat bubbled! And Billy’s vision blurred and doubled!

  CHIP CHIP CHIP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! Down at Greasy Ian’s House of Slops! CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER! CHATTER CHATTER CHEE! Just like hell, where the Devil be!

  SLASH SLASH SLASH! SLICE SLICE SLICE! Greasy Ian’s carving knife! CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER! CHATTER CHATTER CHEE! Mr Gum, Greasy Ian and the monkey makes three!

  The knife’s blade flashed and the meat was sliced!

  And carved and halved and chopped and diced!

  The meat was sliced and the knife’s blade flashed!

  And the pots they clattered and crashed and bashed!

  And the walls were dripping and the chips were hot

  Greasy Ian did a poo in the cooking pot!

  And the chips were hot and the walls were dripping

  And Philip the Horror was dancing and skipping!

  BASH BASH BASH!

  BAM BAM BAM!

  Greasy Ian carving up the lamb!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!

  And they danced in the flames, so wild and free!

  FLICKER FLICKER FLICKER!

  FLAME FLAME FLAME!

  Kebabs were Greasy Ian’s game!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!

  Just like hell, where the Devil be!

  Finally the terrifying display of cooking was at an end. Philip the Horror eased up on the handle and gradually the column of spinning meat slowed down, coming to a stop with a soft, squelchy PPPPPPHFFFFTTTTHHHHTTTT.

  ‘There ye go, pally,’ said Greasy Ian, slapping the kebab into something that was either a bit of pita bread or an oven glove, it was impossible to tell.

  ‘Delicious,’ mumbled Mr Gum, big gobs of sauce squirting out the side of the kebab and running down his beard in a thick juicy stream.