What's for Dinner Mr Gum? Read online

  ‘I never seen him lookin’ so happy,’ thought Billy. ‘Never once in all these years.’

  ‘Mmmmph! Scoffle! Yub!’ snorted Mr Gum, cramming the last of the kebab down his throat. ‘What a taste! Much better than Billy’s borin’ old entrails!’

  Outside, Billy clutched his heart as if wounded by a dagger with ‘DISLOYALTY’ written on the handle.

  ‘What?’ said Greasy Ian. ‘Ye’re not still hangin’ ’round with that butcher fella, are ye?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t need Billy no more,’ laughed Mr Gum, talking WITH HIS MOUTH FULL. ‘Not now I got you, me old grizzler!’

  ‘That’s right,’ chuckled Greasy Ian. ‘Ye don’t need to hang around with losers like Billy when ye can hang ’round with losers like me an’ Philip the Horror! We’re yer best friends now, aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mr Gum and then the two of them were laughing together through the smoke and the steam and Philip the Horror was hooting and clapping his monkey paws together and that was it. Billy couldn’t stand it a second longer.

  He pushed open the cat flap and burst into the kebab shop on his magic unicorn, Elizabeth.

  ‘BILLY!’ cried Mr Gum, hastily wiping his beard on his sleeve. ‘What you doin’ here?’

  ‘The question is what YOU doin’ here, Mr Gum?’ cried Billy. ‘You gone an’ found yourself another scoff merchant, haven’t you! HAVEN’T YOU!’

  ‘No, I never!’ protested Mr Gum. ‘It ain’t how it looks, Billy! You gone out your mind with jealous thoughts!’

  ‘Forget it,’ sobbed Billy. ‘I seen it all. You scoffed that kebab down like a common werewolf! I seen it all an’ I heard it all an’ I smelt it all! I’m sick of you an’ your lies, Mr Gum! You ain’t nothin’ but a cheatin’, deceitful, pinched-up little scooper!’

  ‘But – but – but,’ started Mr Gum.

  ‘No buts,’ said Billy. He pointed a trembling finger towards Greasy Ian and Philip the Horror. ‘You got your new mates now. Well, I hope the three of you’s gonna be very happy together!’

  And with that Billy William dived back through the cat flap and took off into the night, hardly knowing where he was going and hardly caring that he didn’t know and hardly even caring that he didn’t care that he didn’t know.

  ‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHATTER!’

  Philip the Horror’s shrieks chased Billy all the way along the canal, echoing off the flagstones.

  ‘CHATTER CHATTER CHEEEEEEEEEE!’

  Chapter 5

  Billy Sows the Seeds of His Revenge

  I never thought I’d say it, but poor old Billy. All night long he tossed and turned in his freezing cold bed, his gruesome little head a-spinnin’ and a-sparkin’ with the terrible things he’d seen and heard. Greasy Ian’s wild sweaty face . . .

  Philip the Horror’s gut-wrenching squeals . . . Mr Gum’s jaws swooping down into the kebab meat . . .

  ‘NOOO!’ yelled Billy, throwing his blanket to the floor.

  Thora Gruntwinkle looked down from her place on the wall, but what help was she? She was mere ink and paper. The real Thora Gruntwinkle was all the way down in Olde London Town, probably kissing some big handsome sailor right now. Or a guy with loads of money. Or a bloke who occasionally washed. Why would she want a loser like Billy?

  ‘I’M ALONE!’ howled Billy. ‘ALOOOOOOONE!’

  As the night wore on, Billy’s thoughts grew darker and darker still.

  ‘It’s all Mr Gum’s fault,’ he growled. ‘He’s the one what deserted me.’

  Mr Gum it’s his fault Deserted Deserted Fault Breadbin Mr Gum

  The words went spinning around and around in Billy’s mind until finally one dreadful word repeated itself over and over in huge blood-red letters:

  RIVINGE

  (You see, that was how Billy William pronounced the word ‘revenge’.)

  ‘I’ll show Mr Gum he can’t go ’round gettin’ new pals an’ leavin’ me all alone,’ he vowed. ‘But how? I wish I was a shark, then he’d be sorry. I’d lie in the ocean waitin’ for him to go on holiday an’ then – SNAP! That’d learn him.’

  But Billy had to face it – he wasn’t a shark. Not even a little one.

  Finally, as dawn was breaking, an idea came to him.

  ‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Billy William. ‘I ain’t a shark, I’m a genius. A blibberin’ genius! But I’m gonna need three things – some seeds, some more seeds an’ a few more seeds jus’ to make sure.’

  ONE WEEK LATER . . .

  Mr Gum was sitting out in his garden, relaxing in his favourite broken deckchair and reading a copy of The History of Kebabs, which Greasy Ian had lent him. Mr Gum hated reading but he liked the pictures. One of the pictures showed a small boy crying because he’d eaten too much chilli sauce. Another showed a vegetarian being attacked by doner kebabs. It made Mr Gum laugh.

  The sun was shining merrily in the sky and the birds and squirrels were playing happily in the trees. But despite all this Mr Gum was in a good mood.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he said, licking some old sauce off one of the pages. But then he noticed something. Something on the lawn. Something yellow and green and . . .

  Mr Gum’s tongue stopped mid-lick.

  He looked around.

  Come to think of it, the garden was full of the things.

  Dozens of them.

  Hundreds of them.

  ‘SHABBA ME WHISKERS!’ yelled Mr Gum, jumping out of his deckchair like a horrid stallion. ‘SHABBA ME KEBAB-CHOMPIN’ WHISKERS!’

  Mr Gum’s lawn was infested with hundreds and hundreds of his old enemies – corn on the cob.

  Mr Gum couldn’t stand corn on the cob. Mr Gum hated corn on the cob. You know how kryptonite makes Superman throw up all over his cape and go really weak? That’s almost what it was like with Mr Gum and corn on the cob.

  ‘Yisp!’ he moaned feebly, falling to the ground. ‘Throob! Vastrich! Prut! I can’t bears it! I can’t stands it! I can’t takes it! I can’t endures it! I can’t stomachs it! I can’t helps it! I don’t LIKES it!’

  Mr Gum began crawling towards the house. His head was swimming and his stomach felt like it was playing table tennis against a Womble.

  ‘Gotta . . . keep . . . goin’ . . . ’ he gasped. ‘Gotta . . . get . . . away.’

  Eventually he made it inside and up to his dirty bedroom where he lay panting on his unmade bed. When he had finally recovered he risked a look out the broken window and suddenly all the strength and fury rushed back into his body.

  The corn on the cobs had been planted to spell out a message.

  NO ONE MESSES WITH BILLY WILLIAM THE THIRD!

  ‘WHO DID THIS?!’ screamed Mr Gum. Then he realised it was probably Billy William the Third.

  ‘That’s right, you appallin’ snocklehead!’ called Billy at that precise moment, sticking his nose over Mr Gum’s garden fence.

  ‘I planted ’em – an’ why? To get me rivinge!! You ain’t me friend no more, Mr Gum! Just consider yourself lucky I ain’t a shark!’

  And off he tore down the road on his magic unicorn, Elizabeth, laughing, laughing, laughing.

  ‘I’LL GET YOU!’ said Mr Gum in capital letters. ‘Just you wait, Billy me boy! Just you wait an’ see!’

  Chapter 6

  The Incident of Billy and The Flies

  That crafty old Gumster waited ’til the sun had set and –

  THUD!

  Night had fallen. Then off he skiffled to Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats.

  Carefully he hid himself outside the butcher’s shop and lay in wait. Where did he hide? I don’t know, because he was hidden.

  Eventually the lights in the butcher’s shop went off. Soon after, there came the sound of Billy’s snoring: ‘YYY’. (You see that was how Billy William pronounced ‘ZZZ’.)

  Mr Gum tiptoed over to the shop door on his hands and knees. Then he took a large cardboard box from under his hat. He took off the lid and poured the contents through the letterbox.

  ‘Feast well
, me little leggities,’ whispered Mr Gum, his eyes blazing in the darkness. It was starting to rain but Mr Gum didn’t care. He liked the rain. It proved that evil was afoot.

  The next morning Billy got up. Like every morning he gave the poster of Thora Gruntwinkle a delicate little kiss.

  Like every morning he shuffled into the bathroom to stick extra stubble on his chin and to unbrush his teeth.

  And like every morning, he went downstairs to feed the hundreds of pet flies who lived in his shop.

  ‘Who wants some grub?’ Billy called to his pets as he ladled heaps of slimy entrails into a big black bucket. ‘Henry? Lisa? Wendy? Come an’ get yer breakfast!’

  But the familiar buzzing sound was not to be heard. The butcher’s shop was eerily quiet.

  ‘Where you all hidin’?’ laughed Billy. ‘Jasper? Vernon? Uncle Wing? Bunk? McNulty?’

  Silence.

  ‘Jolliper? Kenton? Crowdaddy? Stan? Nora? Oliver? Bluetail?’ called Billy, desperately ladling the entrails into the bucket. He was starting to sweat. Something was wrong.

  A single fly crawled weakly towards Billy across the dirty sawdust floor. It was Billy’s favourite of them all – a tiny fellow called Little Billy.

  ‘But jus’ look at you!’ cried Billy William. The ladle dropped from his hands and clattered into the bucket. ‘Little Billy! Little Billy! What’s happened to you?’

  Billy William leaned forward to gather the poor little fly into his arms. One of Little Billy’s legs was missing and his beautiful tiny eyes were shiny with fear.

  Help me! he seemed to say as he staggered forward to Billy William, who was like the father he had never had. Help me!

  But before Billy could take the stricken insect in his arms, the floor started to heave and rumble. And suddenly an army of fat brown spiders who had been lying hidden in the sawdust reared up and pounced upon Little Billy.

  The tiny fly fought with all his might. He fought with the strength of ten flies. But unfortunately the thirty-eight spiders fought with the strength of thirty-eight spiders. He didn’t stand a chance.

  And now Billy knew where all his other flies had gone. He fell to his knees and sobbed.

  ‘WHYYYYY?’ he wailed. ‘WHYYYYYYYY?’

  Outside the rain was falling, falling like Billy’s own teardrops as he lay there in the sawdust. And the wind it blew as cold as the cold, cold feeling in Billy’s heart. And three faces stood outside in the rain and the wind, smiling grimly through it all.

  ‘Them spiders worked a treat,’ growled Mr Gum as Philip the Horror gathered them back into the box to eat later.

  ‘Aye,’ said Greasy Ian, the raindrops slipping slickly off his oily hair.

  ‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHATTER!’ shrieked Philip the Horror, jumping furiously up and down in the puddles. In each of his bright little eyes was reflected the pathetic figure of Billy William, sobbing into the sawdust. ‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHEE!’

  Chapter 7

  The Dinnertime Wars

  And now do you see how the tiniest disagreements spiral out of control? Do you? Do you? DO YOU REALLY? DO YOU? OH REALLY? DO YOU? DO YOU REALLY?

  Well, OK then.

  You see, just as the tiny acorn must one day grow into the mighty elephant, Mr Gum and Billy’s fight had grown bigger and bigger by the hour. And the Incident of Billy and the Flies had pushed it over the edge. It was

  W-A-R.

  And that spells trouble.

  So hide your heads in shame, my friends. For Lamonic Bibber’s darkest days were now upon it.

  The Dinnertime Wars had begun.

  KA-BOOOOOOOOM!

  Entrails and kebab scrapings flew through the skies as Mr Gum and his new pals slugged it out with Billy William the Third.

  KA-&LLLLAAAAAAAM!

  Pig skulls and sheep bones littered the wartorn ground. The streets ran red with chilli sauce.

  A news reporter tried to sneak in with a helicopter but Greasy Ian got him with a pickled egg right between the eyes and he went home and cried to his mum.

  KA-BLIMMMMMO!

  By day the sun was hidden behind clouds of oily smoke. By night the sun was hidden because it was night-time. The townsfolk hid in their houses and the days grew dark, for that ghastly demon WAR stalked the earth, my friends. WAR, WAR, WAR!

  The entrails soared and the fat it spattered! In the Dinnertime Wars that was all that mattered!

  The fat it spattered and the entrails soared! As the demon of WAR it rumbled and roared!

  BOOM BOOM BOOM!

  BANG BANG BANG!

  Billy fighting the Kebab Shop Gang!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER! CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!

  Just like hell where the Devil be!

  FIRE FIRE FIRE!

  FAT FAT FAT!

  One of Billy’s burgers hit a passing cat!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!

  Three against one and one against three!

  And the fighting flared and the sky turned black!

  Greasy Ian accidentally kicked his monkey in the back!

  And the sky turned black and the fighting flared!

  And the people of the town were running scared!

  WAR WAR WAR!

  WOO WOO WOO!

  Run, Billy run, they’re after you!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!

  Mr Gum squirting sauce at a sycamore tree!

  BUBBLE BUBBLE BUBBLE!

  BOIL BOIL BOIL!

  Greasy Ian, slopping out the oil!

  CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER!

  CHATTER CHATTER -

  ‘NO! Not that monkey again!’ cried Martin Launderette, who ran the launderette. ‘I can’t take it anymore!’

  Big fat Jonathan Ripples ducked as a chicken carcass came hurtling by.

  ‘I used to dream about flying food!’ he trembled. ‘But not like this!’

  ‘Innocent people are getting hurt!’ cried innocent people. ‘Ouch!’

  Billy launched a frozen turkey high into the air.

  KA-BAAAAAAAB!

  Greasy Ian rumbled a drum of flaming chip fat down the high street.

  KA-LAAAAAUUUUUGH!

  Mr Gum’s insane laugh echoed off the gravy-splattered buildings.

  ‘I’ve lived through eight World Wars,’ declared Old Granny, taking a sip from the bottle of sherry she always kept hidden in her hair. ‘But I’ve never seen anything as bad as this. We’ve got to get out of town!’

  The townsfolk huddled in their houses, awaiting their chance to escape. And all around them the meat threw thick and fast.

  KA-BOOM!

  KA-BLAM!

  KA-END OF CHAPTER!

  Chapter 8

  The Heroes Return

  Friday O’Leary looked at the calendar he always wore around his neck. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve been at the seaside for days now. Do you think it’s time to go home yet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Polly. ‘Let’s go homes to good old Lamonic Bibber an’ see what’s been happenin’ while we been away.’

  ‘Definitely,’ agreed Alan Taylor, who was being chased down the beach by violent apes for some reason. ‘I’ve had enough of the seaside.’

  And so it was that the three heroes packed up their bags and set off for home. Soon they had left the seaside far behind and were making their way along the winding country lanes. The day was warm and pleasant and the three friends walked in companionable silence as if no words were needed between them to communicate the things they felt.

  ‘No words are needed between us to communicate the things we feel,’ said Friday.

  The trees twittered and the birds waved gently in the breeze, but as the heroes drew closer to home Polly began to grow uneasy. It was quiet – much too quiet. Something didn’t feel right – much too didn’t feel right.

  ‘Look,’ Polly said, as they came to Old Granny’s house on the edge of town. ‘Old Granny done pulled her curtains shut. I never seen that bef
ore, usually she’s far too drunk to remember an’ everyone can see her jivin’ to her old-fashioned musicals in the lounge.’

  All the other houses were just the same. Every one of them stood silent and still. There wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  It’s like a ghost town, thought Polly with a shiver.

  Where has everyone disappeared to? thought Alan Taylor with a shiver.

  Why’s everyone shivering? I’d better shiver too, thought Friday with a shiver.

  Suddenly – WHOOIMP! – something sharp and pointy flew through the air. Then – WHOOIMP! – something else sharp and pointy flew through the air. Then – KA-FUUURRRTLE! – something else sharp and pointy flew through the air.

  ‘I wonder why that last one went “KA-FUUURRRTLE!” instead of “WHOOIMP!”’ said Friday O’Leary. ‘Isn’t life interesting?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what else is interesting,’ said Alan Taylor, examining the flying things closely with his knowledgeable raisin eyes. ‘These are sheep bones. But what on earth are –’

  ‘DUCK!’ yelled Polly as a dead duck came soaring towards them. ‘What’s a-goin’ on in our pretty little town? An’ what’s that “CHATTER CHATTER CHEE” sound what’s scramblin’ up my brains like dandelions?’

  The frightful noises grew louder as the heroes rounded Boaster’s Hill and approached the high street.

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly.

  ‘My,’ said Alan Taylor.

  ‘Good,’ said Friday.

  ‘Lord!’ added a helpful passerby to finish the sentence.

  Because there it was in all its grisly splendour – the Dinnertime Wars that were tearing the town apart.

  ‘Take that, Greasy Ian!’ shouted a scrawny figure who stood in the middle of the high street, lobbing meat wildly in all directions. His clothes were tattered and torn. His cap had gone. His face was covered in scraps of bacon. But Polly recognised him instantly.