Mr. Stink

by David Walliams

  18.) To combat the growing problem of “hoodies,” all hooded tops to have the hoods cut off.

  19.) Video games rot the brain. Any video games (or computer games or console games or whatever the stupid things are called) to be played only between 4:00 p.m. and 4:01 p.m. daily.

  20.) Finally, all homeless people, or “soap dodgers,” are to be banned from our streets They are a menace to society. And, more importantly, they smell.

  Chloe slumped down on the sofa when she read these last sentences. There was a loud squeak as she did so. Mother had insisted on keeping on the plastic covers the sofa and armchair had arrived in, so as to keep them immaculate. They were indeed still immaculate, but it meant your bum got really hot and sweaty.

  What about my new friend Mr. Stink? Chloe thought. What’s going to happen to him? And what about the Duchess? If he is banned from the streets, where on earth is he going to go?

  And then, a moment later, Wow, my bum is getting incredibly hot and sweaty.

  She chaffed her way sadly back up the stairs to her room. Sitting on her bed, she stared out of the window. Because she was shy and awkward, Chloe didn’t make friends easily. Now her newest friend Mr. Stink was going to have to leave the town. Maybe forever. She stared out through the glass at the deep blue endless air. Then, just before her eyes lost focus in the infinite sky of nothing, she looked down. The answer was at the end of the garden staring back at her.

  The shed.

  7

  A Bucket in the Corner

  This operation had to be top secret. Chloe waited until darkness fell, and then led Mr. Stink and the Duchess silently down her street, before slipping through the side gate to her garden.

  “It’s just a shed . . .” said Chloe apologetically as they entered his new abode. “I’m sorry there’s no en suite bathroom, but there is a bucket in the corner there just behind the lawn mower. You can use that if you need to go in the night. . . .”

  “Well, this is unimaginably kind, young Miss Chloe, thank you,” said Mr. Stink, smiling broadly. Even the Duchess seemed to bark “thank you,” or at least “cheers.” “Now,” continued Mr. Stink, “are you sure your mother and father don’t mind me being here? I would hate to be an unwelcome guest.”

  Chloe gulped, nervous about the lie that was about to come out of her mouth. “No . . . no . . . they don’t mind at all. They’re just both very busy people and they apologize that they weren’t able to be here right now to meet you in person.”

  Chloe had carefully picked the right time to settle Mr. Stink in. She knew Mother was out campaigning for election, and Dad was picking up Annabelle from her sumo-wrestling class.

  “Well, I would love to meet them both,” said Mr. Stink, “and see what people turned out such a wonderfully generous and thoughtful daughter. This will be so much warmer than my bench.”

  Chloe smiled shyly at the compliment. “Sorry there are all these old cardboard boxes in here,” she said. She started to move them out of the way, to give him room to lie down. Mr. Stink gave her a hand, lifting some of the boxes on top of each other. When she got to the bottom box, Chloe paused. Poking out of the top was a charred electric guitar. She examined it for a moment, puzzled, then rummaged through the box and found a pile of old CDs. They were all the same, stacks and stacks of an album titled Hell For Leather, by The Serpents of Doom.

  “Have you ever heard of this band?” she asked.

  “I don’t really know any music past 1958, I’m afraid.”

  Chloe studied the picture on the cover for a moment. Super-imposed in front of a drawing of a giant snake stood four long-haired, leather-jacketed types. Chloe’s eyes fixed on the guitar player, who looked an awful lot like her dad, only with a mess of curly black hair.

  “I don’t believe it!” said Chloe. “That’s my dad.”

  She hadn’t had any idea her dad had ever had a perm, let alone that he’d been in a rock band! She didn’t know which was more shocking—the idea of him not being bald, or the idea of him playing electric guitar.

  “Really?” said Mr. Stink.

  “I think so,” said Chloe. “It looks like him anyway.” She was still studying the album cover with a curious combination of pride and embarrassment.

  “Well, we all have secrets, Miss Chloe. Now what should I do if I require a pot of tea or a round of sausage sandwiches on white bread please with brown sauce on the side? Is there a bell I should ring?”

  Chloe looked at him, a little surprised. She hadn’t realized she was going to have to feed him as well as shelter him.

  “No, there’s no bell,” she said. “Erm, you see that window up there? That’s my bedroom.”

  “Ah yes?”

  “Well, if you need something, why don’t you flash this old bicycle light up at my window? Then I can come down and . . . erm . . . take your order.”

  “Perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Stink.

  Being in the confined space of the shed with Mr. Stink was beginning to make it difficult for Chloe to breathe. The smell was especially bad today. It was stinky even by Mr. Stink’s stinky standards. “Would you like to have a bath before my family get back?” Chloe said hopefully. The Duchess looked up at her master with a look of desperate hope in her blinking eyes. It was the stink that made her blink.

  “Let me think. . . .”

  Chloe smiled at him expectantly.

  “Actually, I’ll leave it for this month, thank you.”

  “Oh,” said Chloe, disappointed. “Is there is anything I can get you right now?”

  “Is there an afternoon tea menu perhaps?” asked Mr. Stink. “A choice of scones, cakes, and French pastries?”

  “Erm . . . no,” said Chloe. “But I could bring you a cup of tea and biscuits. And we should have some cat food that I could bring for the Duchess.”

  “I am pretty sure the Duchess is a dog, not a cat,” pronounced Mr. Stink.

  “I know, but we only have a cat, so we’ve only got cat food.”

  “Well, maybe you could pop into Raj’s shop tomorrow and buy the Duchess some tins of dog food. Raj knows the brand she likes.” Mr. Stink rummaged in his pockets. “Here’s a ten-pence piece. You can keep the change.”

  Chloe looked in her hand. Mr. Stink had actually placed an old brass button there.

  “Thank you so much, young lady,” he continued. “And please don’t forget to knock when you return in case I am getting changed into my pajamas.”

  What have I done? thought Chloe, as she made her way across the lawn back to the house. Her head was buzzing with more imaginary life stories for her new friend, but none of them seemed quite right. Was he an astronaut who had fallen to earth and, in the shock, lost his memory? Or perhaps he was a convict who had escaped from prison after serving thirty years for a crime he didn’t commit? Or, even better, a modern-day pirate who had been forced by his comrades to walk the plank into shark-infested waters, but against all the odds had swum to safety?

  One thing she knew for sure was that he did really whiff. Indeed, she could still smell him as she reached the back door. The plants and flowers in the garden seemed to have wilted with the smell. They were all now leaning away from the shed as if they were trying to avert their stamens. At least he’s safe, thought Chloe. And warm, and dry, if only for tonight.

  When she got up to her room and looked out of the window, the light was flashing already. “All-butter highland shortbread biscuits if you have them, please!” called up Mr. Stink. “Thank you so much!”

  8

  Maybe It’s the Drains

  “What’s that smell?” demanded Mother as she entered the kitchen. She had been out all day campaigning and looked stiffly immaculate as ever in a royal blue twinset—except for her nose, which was twitching uncontrollably in disgust.

  “What smell?” said Chloe, with a short delay as she gulped.

  “You must be able to smell it too, Chloe. That smell of . . . Well, I’m not going to say what it reminds me of, that would be im
polite and unbecoming of a woman of my class and distinction, but it’s a bad smell.” She breathed in and the smell seemed to take her by surprise all over again. “My goodness, it’s a very bad smell.”

  Like a malevolent cloud of darkest brown, the smell had seeped through the timber of the shed, no doubt peeling off the creosote as it traveled. Then it had crept its way across the lawn, before opening the cat flap and starting its aggressive occupation of the kitchen. Have you ever wondered what a bad smell looks like? It looks like this. . . .

  Oh, that’s a nasty one. If you put your nose right up against the page, you can almost smell it.

  “Maybe it’s the drains?” offered Chloe.

  “Yes, it must be the drains leaking again. Even more reason why I need to be elected to Parliament. Now, I have a journalist from the Times coming to interview me during breakfast tomorrow. So you must be on your best behavior. I want him to see what a nice normal family we are.”

  Normal?! thought Chloe.

  “Voters like to see that one has a happy home life. I just pray that this foul stench will be gone by then.”

  “Yes . . .” said Chloe. “I’m sure it will. Mother, was Dad—I mean, Father—ever in a rock band?”

  Mother stared at her. “What on earth are you talking about, young lady? Where would you get such a ridiculous idea?”

  Chloe swallowed. “It’s just I saw this picture of this band called The Serpents of Doom and one of them looked a lot like—”

  Mother went a little pale. “Preposterous!” she said. “I don’t know what’s got into you!” She fiddled with her bouffant, almost as if she was nervous. “Your father, in a rock band of all things! First that exercise book full of outrageous stories, and now this!”

  “But—”

  “No buts, young lady. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

  Mother looked really furious now. Chloe couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. “Well, pardon me for asking,” she sulked.

  “That’s it!” shouted Mother. “Go to bed, right now!”

  “It’s twenty past six!” Chloe protested.

  “I don’t care! Bed!”

  Chloe found it hard to get to sleep. Not only because she had been sent to bed so ridiculously early, but also and more importantly because she had moved a tramp into the shed. She noticed the light of the flashlight bouncing off her bedroom window and looked at her alarm clock. It was 2:11 a.m. What on earth could he want at this time of night?

  Mr. Stink had made the shed quite homely. He had fashioned a bed out of some piles of old newspapers. An old piece of tarpaulin was his duvet, with a grow bag for a pillow. It looked almost comfy. An old hose had been arranged in the shape of a dog basket for the Duchess. A plant pot full of water sat beside for a bowl. In chalk he’d expertly drawn some old-fashioned portraits on the dark wooden creosoted walls, like the ones you see in museums or old country houses, depicting people from history. On one side he’d even drawn a window, complete with curtains and a sea view.

  “You seem to be settling in then,” said Chloe.

  “Oh, yes, I can’t thank you enough, child. I love it. I feel like I finally have a home again.”

  “I’m so pleased.”

  “Now,” said Mr. Stink. “Miss Chloe, I called you down here because I can’t sleep. I would like you to read me a story.”

  “A story? What kind of story?”

  “You choose, my dear. But I implore you, nothing too girly please . . . .”

  Chloe tiptoed up the stairs back to her room. Sometimes she liked to move around the house without making a sound, and so could remember where all the creaks were on the stairs. If she put her foot right in the middle of this step, or the left side of this one, she knew she wouldn’t be heard. If she woke Annabelle up, she knew her little sister would relish the chance of getting her into deep deep trouble. And this wouldn’t be normal everyday trouble like not eating your cabbage or “forgetting” to do your homework. This would be “inviting a tramp to live in the shed” trouble. It would be off the scale. As this simple graph shows:

  Alternatively, if you look at this simple Venn diagram, you can see that if figure A is “trouble” and figure B is “serious trouble,” then this shaded area here, representing inviting a tramp to live in the shed, is a subsection of figure B.

  I hope that makes things clear.

  Chloe looked on her bookshelf, behind the little ornamental owls she collected even if she wasn’t sure why. (Did she even like owls? Some distant aunt buys you a porcelain owl one day, some other aunt assumes you’re collecting them, and by the end of your childhood you’ve got hundreds of the stupid things. Owls, not aunts.)

  Chloe studied the spines of her books. They were quite girly. Lots of pink-colored books that matched her stupid pink-colored room that she hated. She hadn’t chosen the color of her walls. Hadn’t even been asked. Why couldn’t her room be painted black? Now that would be cool. Her mother only bought her books about ponies, princesses, ballet schools, and brainless bleach-blonde teenagers in America whose only worry was what to wear to the prom. Chloe wasn’t the least bit interested in any of them, and she was pretty sure Mr. Stink wouldn’t be either. The one story she had written had been torn to shreds by her mother. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chloe tiptoed back down the stairs and shut the kitchen door behind her incredibly slowly so it wouldn’t make a noise, and then knocked gently on the shed door.

  “Who is it?” came a suspicious voice.

  “It’s me, Chloe, of course.”

  “I was fast asleep! What do you want?”

  “You asked me to read you a story.”

  “Oh well, now you’ve woken me up, you better come in . . . .”

  Chloe took a last deep breath of the fresh night air and entered his den.

  “Goody!” said Mr. Stink. “I used to love a bedtime story.”

  “Well, actually I’m sorry, but I couldn’t really find anything,” said Chloe. “All my books are horribly girly. Most of them are pink, in fact.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mr. Stink. He looked disappointed for a moment, then he smiled at a thought. “But what about one of your stories?”

  “My stories?”

  “Yes. You told me you like to make them up.”

  “But I couldn’t just . . . I mean . . . what if you don’t like it?” Chloe’s stomach fizzed with a peculiar mix of excitement and fear. No one had ever asked to hear one of her stories before.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it,” said Mr. Stink. “And anyhow, you’ll never know until you try.”

  “That’s true,” said Chloe, nodding. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Do you like vampires?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t know any socially.”

  “No, I mean, would you like to hear a story about vampires? These are vampires who are teachers in a school. Who suck the blood out of their poor unsuspecting pupils . . .”

  “Is this the story your mother tore up?”

  “Erm . . . yes,” replied Chloe sadly. “But I think I can remember most of it.”

  “Well, I would love to hear it!”

  “Really?”

  “Of course!”

  “All right,” said Chloe. “Please can you pass me the flashlight?”

  Mr. Stink passed it to her and she turned it on and put it under her face to look scary.

  “Once upon a time . . .” she began, before losing her nerve.

  “Yes?”

  “Once upon a time . . . no, I can’t do it! Sorry.”

  Chloe hated reading out loud in class. She was so shy she would even try and hide under her desk to avoid it. This was even more terrifying. These were her words. It was much more private, more personal, and she suddenly felt like she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone.

  “Please, Miss Chloe,” said Mr. Stink encouragingly. “I really want to hear your story. It sounds top banana! Now you were saying, once upon a time . . .”r />
  She took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Lily who hated going to school. It wasn’t because the lessons were hard, it was because all her teachers were vampires . . . .”

  “Wonderful opening!”

  Chloe smiled, and continued. Soon she was really getting into it, and putting on voices for her heroine Lily, Lily’s best friend Justin, who was bitten by the music teacher in a piano lesson and became a bloodsucker too, and Mrs. Murk, the evil headmistress, who was in fact empress of vampires.

  The tale unraveled all night. Chloe finished the story just before dawn as Lily finally drove her hockey stick through the headmistress’s heart.

  “. . . Mrs. Murk’s blood spurted out of her like newly struck oil, redecorating the sports hall a dark shade of crimson. The end.”

  Chloe turned off the flashlight, her voice hoarse and her eyes barely still open.

  “What an absolutely gripping yarn,” announced Mr. Stink. “I can’t wait to find out what happens in book two.”

  “Book two?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Stink. “Surely after killing the headmistress, Lily is moved to another school. And all the teachers there could be flesh-eating zombies!”

  That, thought Chloe, is a very good idea.

  9

  A Little Bit of Drool

  Chloe looked at her alarm-clock radio when she finally dropped into bed. 6:44 a.m. She had never been to bed that late, ever. Adults didn’t even go to bed that late. Maybe very naughty rock-star ones, but not many. She closed her eyes for a second.

  “Chloe? Chloeee? Wake up! Chloeeeee?” shouted Mother from outside the door. She knocked on the door three times. Then paused and knocked one more time, which was especially annoying, as Chloe hadn’t expected her to. She looked at the alarm-clock-radio thing again. 6:45 a.m. She had either been asleep for a whole day or a whole minute. As she couldn’t open her eyes, Chloe guessed it must have been a minute.