Fangs!
Page 1
For Simon – thanks for my “SURPRISE” birthday song ~ D R
For all Bertie fans – and especially those who have written me letters ~ A M
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1 Fangs!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
2 Hairy!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
3 Fashion!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
It was Book Week at Bertie’s school and everyone had come dressed as their favourite character. Bertie looked round the playground. There were four witches, a sprinkling of fairies and a rash of Harry Potters. Darren was dressed as Dennis the Menace. Eugene was Willy Wonka. Bertie smiled to himself. His costume was better than any of them. He was Count Dracula. He had a black cloak and a pair of plastic fangs. A rubber bat dangled from his wrist like a yo-yo.
“Who are you?” asked Eugene.
Bertie glared. “Who do you think?”
“Dunno. The Big Bad Wolf?”
“I’m Count Dracula!” said Bertie.
“Dracula doesn’t wear trainers,” said Darren.
Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over them.
“Good morning!” said a sinister voice.
Bertie turned round. He gasped. Yikes, it was another vampire! And this one was taller and ten times as scary!
“Heh heh! Did I frighten you?” laughed the vampire, taking out his fangs.
“Mr Grouch!” said Bertie.
“Count Grouch,” corrected the caretaker. “I see you had the same idea. Spooky, eh?”
He looked down at something by Bertie’s foot.
“What’s that?”
“Um … a sweet wrapper,” said Bertie.
“LITTER! Pick it up!”
“But I didn’t…”
“PICK IT UP!” snapped Mr Grouch.
“And don’t ever drop litter in my playground. I have my eye on you.”
He put in his fangs and swept away, trailing his cape behind him.
“Yikes!” shivered Eugene. “He scared me to death!”
“Me too,” said Darren. “How does he sneak up like that?”
Bertie scowled. “It’s not fair! Dracula was my idea!”
“Yeah, but his costume’s better,” said Darren. “I thought he was a vampire.”
“Maybe he is,” said Eugene.
Darren and Bertie stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” said Eugene, “yesterday I passed his shed – the one he always keeps locked. Mr Grouch was sitting outside, having a drink.”
Darren shrugged. “So? What’s funny about that?”
“It’s what he was drinking,” said Eugene. “It looked like … blood!”
“BLOOD?” gasped Bertie.
“Shh, not so loud!” hissed Eugene. “And look at his costume – it fits perfectly. Maybe he really is a vampire.”
“But vampires can’t stand the daylight,” Darren objected.
“Maybe he’s a kind of half vampire,” suggested Bertie. “Half vampire, half caretaker.”
It made sense. Bertie had always thought there was something creepy about the school caretaker. He had staring eyes for a start – and no hair. He hated children (Bertie especially). Plus he had a weird habit of suddenly appearing, like a ghost.
“We’ve got to stop him!” said Bertie.
“He hasn’t done anything yet,” said Darren, “except clean the toilets.”
“How do you know?” said Bertie. “How do you know he’s not murderin’ teachers and drinking their blood? What about Miss Withers?”
Miss Withers had taught Class 2 – until she had gone home sick and never returned. Or that was what people said. But what if Mr Grouch had murdered her and hidden the body? It was a worrying thought.
Eugene fingered his neck uneasily. “What shall we do?” he asked.
“Spy on him,” said Bertie. “Find out what he’s up to. We’ll take it in turns.”
“Good idea,” said Darren. “You go first.”
“ME? Why me?” said Bertie.
“It’s your idea. And anyway, he hates you already.”
CHAPTER 2
All that morning, Bertie kept an eye on Mr Grouch through the window. He wrote down everything he saw in the back of his maths book.
After lunch, Bertie hung around the shed, hoping to spy on the caretaker. It wasn’t long before Mr Grouch appeared, wearing his usual scowl. He was still dressed in his black vampire’s cape.
Bertie ducked behind the shed out of sight. He heard Mr Grouch unlock the door and go inside. A minute later, the caretaker returned with a bag and a folding chair. He sat down in the sunshine and began to eat his sandwiches.
Bertie crept to the corner of the shed and peeped out. Mr Grouch was reaching into his bag. He brought out an old green Thermos and poured something into a plastic cup. Bertie gasped. It was bright red and steaming slightly… BLOOD!
Eugene was right. There was no escaping the horrible truth – Mr Grouch was a vampire.
Bertie found Darren and Eugene waiting for him in the playground.
“Blood?” said Darren, when he’d given his report. “You’re sure?”
“Course I’m sure, I saw him drink it!” said Bertie.
“So whose blood was it?”
“How do I know?”
“I told you he’s a vampire!” said Eugene. “We should go to Miss Skinner!”
“Oh yeah, she’s really going to believe us,” said Darren.
Bertie shook his head. “First we need evidence. We’ve got to actually prove he’s a vampire.”
“How?” asked Eugene. “He’s not drinking any of my blood!”
“Nor mine,” said Darren.
Bertie frowned, thinking hard. Where would Mr Grouch hide anything he wanted to keep secret?
“The SHED!” cried Bertie. “I bet there’s all kinds of stuff in there!”
“Like dead bodies!” said Darren.
“Or skeletons!” said Bertie.
Eugene turned pale. “But we’re not allowed in there, and anyway he keeps it locked.”
Bertie had forgotten that. Mr Grouch kept the keys in his pocket and never let them out of his sight.
“We’ll have to wait till he’s busy,” he said. “Then we’ll ‘borrow’ his keys and break into the shed.”
CHAPTER 3
Mr Grouch was working in the Boys Toilets. A notice on the door said “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS”. Bertie, Darren and Eugene stood outside, whispering.
“You keep him talking, while I look for the keys,” said Bertie.
Eugene trembled. “What if he catches us?”
“Yeah. What if he tries to bite us?” said Darren.
“He won’t,” said Bertie. “Not while there are teachers about.”
It was now or never. Bertie pushed open the door and the three of them crept in. Mr Grouch was up a ladder fixing a light.
“Oh, sorry!” said Bertie. “We, um … just needed the toilet!”
“Can’t you READ?” snapped Mr Grouch. “You’ll have to wait.”
“Okay!” gulped Eugene.
“Actually, I’m bursting,” said Bertie, “and Darren needs a poo…”
“I SAID, COME BACK LATER!” roared Mr Grouch.
They backed away towards the door. Bertie stopped. Mr Grouch’s toolbox lay on the floor and on top was a set of silver keys. Bertie stumbled and pretended to trip over.
CRASH!
“Watch where you’re going!” groaned Mr Grouch.
A minute later, he joined the other two outside.
“A fat lot of good that was,” said Darren.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Bertie smiled. He held up his hand, dangling a large bunch of keys.
Mr Grouch’s shed stood by itself in a corner of the playground. It was strictly out of bounds. Bertie fiddled with the keys, trying to find the right one.
“Hurry up!” moaned Eugene. “What if someone comes?”
“I’m being as quick as I can!”
At last Bertie tried a small silver key. It turned with a click and the padlock sprang open. He pulled back the door and they stepped inside.
“What a dump!” said Bertie. The shed was piled high with boxes, buckets and tins. A jumble of old paint pots littered the floor. On the walls hung Mr Grouch’s collection of brooms, rakes and mops.
Darren looked around. “There’s nothing here!”
“Okay, we’ve seen it, let’s go!” begged Eugene.
“Wait, there must be something,” said Bertie. “We’ve got to find evidence.”
Eugene kept a lookout by the door, while the other two searched.
Bertie found Mr Grouch’s dirty overalls hanging on a hook. Next to them was his bag. Inside was a newspaper, some gardening gloves, a lunch box – and Mr Grouch’s old green Thermos.
“Look at this!” cried Bertie, excitedly.
“Open it,” said Darren.
Bertie unscrewed the lid. The Thermos was empty, but the inside was smeared with bright red stains. He sniffed it. It smelled oddly familiar.
“Well?” asked Darren.
“Blood,” nodded Bertie. “There’s our proof!”
Eugene yelped. A tall figure in a cloak was marching across the playground towards them.
“IT’S GROUCH!” cried Eugene. “RUN!”
Darren and Eugene bolted out of the door. Bertie looked round in panic. He stuffed the things back into Mr Grouch’s bag, keeping the Thermos as evidence. But just as he reached the door, a dark figure blocked his path. Mr Grouch’s eyes blazed like fire.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “Did you take my keys?”
“N-n-no,” stammered Bertie.
“Liar! Hand ’em over!”
“It’s no good,” said Bertie. “We know! We’ve got proof!”
“Proof?”
“That you’re a vampire!” said Bertie.
“Don’t be an idiot!” cried Mr Grouch. “Give me those keys – I won’t ask you again.”
He took a step closer. Bertie could see his mad, staring eyes and deadly fangs.
This is it, he thought. I’m going to be murdered, fanged to death! I have to escape!
“YEEEARGHHHHH!” He rushed at the vampire, knocking him off balance. Mr Grouch stepped back into a paint pot and fell over.
Bertie burst out of the shed door and slammed it shut.
CLICK! He snapped the padlock closed and ran for his life.
“HEY!” yelled Mr Grouch. “LET ME OUT!”
CHAPTER 4
Back in the classroom, Bertie stared out of the window. Miss Boot – or Winnie the Witch as she was today – was droning on about homework. Across the playground, noises came from the shed.
THUMP! THUMP! BANG!
Mr Grouch had been locked in the shed for an hour and he sounded cross. Luckily, Miss Boot paid no attention. She seemed to think the caretaker was mending a fence.
Someone poked Bertie in the back.
“What if he gets out?” hissed Eugene.
“He can’t!”
“But what if he does? He saw you, Bertie!”
THUMP! Was it Bertie’s imagination or were the noises getting louder?
THUMP! BANG! CLUNK!
Mr Grouch was trying to break the door down. Maybe vampires had the strength of ten men?
“BERTIE!” boomed Miss Boot. “STOP STARING OUT OF THE WINDOW! GET ON WITH YOURWORK!”
Bertie tried to concentrate. He looked at what he’d scribbled in his science book.
He glanced back out of the window. ARGH! The shed door was open and hanging off its hinges. Grouch had escaped! Bertie’s heart beat faster. He glanced around. Don’t panic, he thought. Miss Boot’s here and even vampires are afraid of her. Anyway, he won’t come into class…
WHAM!
The door burst open. Mr Grouch stood there, red-faced and furious. His cape was torn and his trousers were splashed with paint. Eugene let out a scream.
“Mr Grouch!” cried Miss Boot. “What on earth…?”
The caretaker stormed into the room. “Where’s that boy?” he panted. “Just let me get my hands on him!”
Bertie was trying to slide down under his desk. But Mr Grouch spotted him.
“YOU!” he yelled. “I want a word with you!”
Miss Boot barred his way. “Mr Grouch! You are interrupting my class! What is this about?”
“Ask him!” said Mr Grouch, pointing at Bertie. “He stole my keys. He locked me in the shed!”
Miss Boot glared. “BERTIE! Is that true?”
“I had to,” said Bertie. “He’s a vampire!
He’s murderin’ people!”
Mr Grouch rolled his eyes. “It’s a costume, you dope – for Book Week!”
“Don’t listen to him!” said Bertie, desperately. “He drinks blood! We’ve seen him!”
“BLOOD?” said Mr Grouch. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” said Bertie. He reached under his desk and brought out the Thermos. He tipped it up to show everyone the inside. “See? RED! Those are bloodstains!”
Mr Grouch snorted. “That’s tomato soup!”
“W-what?” gulped Bertie.
“Soup! Tomato soup. I have it for my lunch.”
“Not … blood?” Bertie sniffed it. He knew the smell was familiar. Oops! If it wasn’t blood, then Mr Grouch wasn’t really a vampire. He was just a hopping mad caretaker who Bertie had locked in a shed for over an hour. Bertie backed away. There was only one thing for it…
“BERTIE!” yelled Miss Boot. “COME BACK HERE!”
CHAPTER 1
Bertie hunched over his breakfast cereal, his hair flopping in his eyes.
SLURP! MUNCH! CRUNCH!
Mum looked up.
“BERTIE!” she sighed.
“What?”
“Your hair!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s a mess!”
Bertie tipped his head back. “It looks okay to me.”
“I’m surprised you can see anything,” said Mum. “You need a haircut!”
“NOOO!” cried Bertie. He HATED having his hair cut. He liked his hair just the way it was. Scruffy. Messy. Dirty. Bertie never combed his hair or brushed it. He howled whenever his mum washed it. As for haircuts – ugh, why bother? Weren’t his parents always moaning about saving money? If he gave up haircuts it would save them thousands of pounds. They ought to be grateful. They ought to be giving him more pocket money, rather than complaining!
Dad looked at Mum. “Are you going to take him?”
“Certainly not,” said Mum. “It’s your turn.”
“It’s not!”
“It is! I took him last time, remember?”
Mum wasn’t likely to forget. Bertie had nits at the time, though they only found out when the hairdresser screamed. They hadn’t been back there since.
“Anyway,” she said. “I don’t get home in time.”
Dad groaned. “All right, I’ll take him after school.”
Bertie looked horrified.
“I can’t!” he moaned. “I … I’ve got homework!”
“That never stops you watching TV,” snorted Dad. “We’ll go to Bob’s on the high street.”
Bertie nearly choked on his cereal. Bob? Not Sweeney Bob the barber? Darren had gone there and he’d come back looking like a hedgehog!
Everyone had called him Spi
ke for weeks!
“Not there!” said Bertie.
“It’s fine,” said Dad. “Lots of people go there.”
“You don’t!” said Bertie.
“No, well I get my hair cut at Super Snips,” said Dad. “It’s, um … easier.”
Super Snips was the smart new hairdresser’s in town. Eugene went there with his mum. They had comfy chairs and comics, and they handed out free lollipops to children. The only thing Sweeney Bob handed out was a tissue to wipe your neck.
“Why can’t I go to Super Snips?” asked Bertie.
“Too posh,” said Mum.
“Too expensive,” said Dad.
“Anyway, I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, Bertie,” said Mum. “And Dad could do with a haircut, too. Why don’t you both go together?”
“No, thanks,” said Dad quickly. “Mine can wait.”
“So can mine,” said Bertie. “I think it’s stopped growing!”
Mum gave him a look. “Bertie, you are getting a haircut and that’s final.”
Bertie sighed heavily and stomped upstairs.
He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. What was wrong with his hair, anyway? He liked it getting in his eyes. It was a pity he wasn’t born before haircuts were invented. Cavemen went around looking as hairy as apes. Bertie thought he would have made a good caveman.
He stared at himself, trying to imagine his face without any hair. Darren would laugh his socks off. “Ugly,” they’d call him at school. “Baldybum.” He’d have to go around with a bag over his head.