Mr. Stink

by David Walliams

  “I wish I was!”

  “All right then, you were a top scientist who invented the most powerful bomb in the world and then, realizing its dangers, went on the run from the military.”

  “Well, those are all very imaginative guesses,” he said. “But I am sorry, none of them are right. You’re not even close, I’m afraid.”

  “I thought not.”

  “I will tell you when the time is right, Chloe.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Now please give me a few minutes, my dear. I must get ready to greet my public!”

  19

  Supertramp

  “I AM NOT APOLOGIZING TO HIM!”

  “YOU HAVE TO!”

  Mr. Stink sat at the head of the kitchen table reading all about himself in the newspapers as Chloe stood at the stove frying some sausages for him. Her parents were arguing again in the next room. It wasn’t a conversation that their houseguest was meant to hear, but they were so angry their voices were becoming louder and louder.

  “BUT HE DOES SMELL!”

  “I KNOW HE SMELLS BUT YOU DIDN’T NEED TO SAY IT ON THE TELEVISION.”

  Chloe smiled over at Mr. Stink. He looked so engrossed in all the headlines, SUPERTRAMP!, STINKY SUPERSTAR STEALS SHOW!, HOMELESS MAN SAVES BORING ELECTION, that he appeared not to be listening. Or maybe he’d put his rabbit dropping earplugs back in.

  “OBVIOUSLY NOT!” shouted Mother. “LAST NIGHT I HAD ANOTHER CALL FROM THE PRIME MINISTER TELLING ME I HAVE EMBARRASSED THE PARTY AND HE WANTS ME TO WITHDRAW AS A CANDIDATE!”

  “GOOD!”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘GOOD’?!”

  “THIS WHOLE THING HAS TURNED YOU INTO A MONSTER!” shouted Dad.

  “WHAT?! I AM NOT A MONSTER!”

  “YES, YOU ARE! MONSTER! MONSTER! MONSTER!”

  “HOW DARE YOU?!” screamed Mother.

  “GO AND APOLOGIZE TO HIM!”

  “NO!”

  “APOLOGIZE!”

  For a moment all you could hear was the sizzle of sausage fat and lard in the frying pan. Then, slowly, the door opened and Mother oozed like slime into the room. Her bouffant was still not what it was. She hesitated for a moment. Her husband appeared in the doorway and gave her a stern look. She did a little theatrical cough.

  “Her-hum. Mr. Stink?” she ventured.

  “Yes, Mrs. Crumb?” replied Mr. Stink without looking up, still engrossed in the papers.

  “I would like to say . . . sorry.”

  “What on earth for?” he inquired.

  “For what I said about you on Question Time last night. About you smelling of all those things. It was impolite.”

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. . . .”

  “Call me Janet.”

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Janet. It was rather hurtful as I do pride myself on my personal hygiene. Indeed, I had a bath just before I went on the show.”

  “Well, you didn’t really have a bath, did you? You had a pond.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I did have a pond. And if you so wish, I will have another ‘pond’ next year, so I remain perfectly clean.”

  “But you’re not clean, you sti—” began Mother.

  “Be nice!” interrupted Dad forcibly.

  “You don’t know this,” said Mother to Mr. Stink. “But after what I said on Question Time last night, I have been asked by the Prime Minister to pull out of the election.”

  “Yes, I do know actually. I heard you and your husband arguing just a moment ago in the living room.”

  “Oh,” said Mother, uncharacteristically lost for words.

  “Sausages are ready!” said Chloe, trying to save her mother from further humiliation.

  “I’d better be off to work now, love,” said Dad. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mother waving him away distractedly. He discreetly picked up a couple of slices of bread and slipped them in his pocket on the way out. Chloe heard the front door loudly open and close, and then the door to the room under the stairs very quietly do the same.

  “Just seven sausages today please, Miss Chloe,” said Mr. Stink. “I don’t want to put on weight. I have to think of my fan base.”

  “Fan base?!” said Mother in a barely disguised jealous rage.

  The telephone, which had been crouching on the table doing very little, suddenly sang its little song.

  Chloe picked it up. “Crooombe residence. Who is speaking please . . . ? It’s the Prime Minister!”

  Mother’s face lit up with hope, and even her bouffant seemed to perk up a bit. “Ah yes! I knew my darling Dave would change his mind!”

  “He wants to talk to Mr. Stink, actually,” continued Chloe. Mother’s smile turned upside down.

  Mr. Stink picked up the receiver with a nonchalance that suggested he often received calls from world leaders. “Stink here. Yes? Yes? Oh yes . . . ?”

  Mother and Chloe studied his face like a map, trying to read from his reactions what the Prime Minister was saying.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Well, yes, thank you, Prime Minister.”

  Mr. Stink put the receiver down and sat back at the table to resume his now daily task of reading about himself in the newspapers.

  “Well?” asked Chloe.

  “Yes, well?” chimed in Mother.

  “The Prime Minister has invited me to go for tea at Number Ten Downing Street today,” said Mr. Stink matter-of-factly. “He wants me to take over from you, Mrs. Crumb, as the local candidate. May I have those sausages now please, Chloe?”

  20

  Grubby Toilet Roll

  “Hoooorrraaaayyyyy!” There was a huge cheer as Mr. Stink appeared at the upstairs window. All he had to do was stand and wave for the crowd to roar their approval. The cameras all zoomed in and the microphones leaned forward. One lady even held her baby up so the infant could catch sight of this new star. Chloe stood a few paces behind Mr. Stink, watching like a proud parent. She hadn’t enjoyed being on the television that much and preferred to let Mr. Stink take center stage. He gestured for everyone to be quiet. And there was quiet.

  “I have written a short speech,” he announced, before unrolling a very long, grubby toilet roll and reading from it.

  “First of all, may I say how very honored I am that you have all turned out to see me today.”

  The crowd cheered again.

  “I am but a humble wanderer. A vagrant maybe, certainly a vagabond, a street dreamer if you will . . . .”

  “Oh, get on with it!” hissed Mother from behind Chloe.

  “Shussshh!” shushed Chloe.

  “As such, I had no idea that simply appearing on the electric televisual apparatus would have quite such an astonishing effect. All I can say at this time is that I am meeting with the Prime Minister today at Number Ten to discuss my political future.”

  The crowd went wild.

  “Thank you all for your incredible kindness,” he concluded, before rolling his toilet roll back up and disappearing from view.

  “Miss Chloe?” he said.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “If I am meeting the Prime Minister, I think I need a makeover.”

  Chloe wasn’t sure exactly what a “makeover” was. She knew there were lots of shows on TV that did makeovers, but Mother didn’t allow her to watch them. Feeling like the ugly duckling of the family, she didn’t own any makeup either, so she tentatively knocked on her little sister’s door to see if she could borrow some. Annabelle had drawers full of makeup. She always asked for it for her birthday and Christmas, as she liked nothing better than painting it all on and performing her own little beauty pageants in front of her bedroom mirror.

  “Has he gone yet?” asked Annabelle.

  “No, he hasn’t. Maybe if you bothered to talk to him, you would see how nice he is.”

  “He smells.”

  “So do you,” said Chloe. “Now, I need to borrow some of your makeup.”

  “Why? You don’t wear makeup. You’re n
ot pretty, so there’s no point.”

  For a moment Chloe entertained a number of fantasies where her little sister met horrific ends. Plunged into a pool of piranhas perhaps? Abandoned in the Arctic wastes in her underwear? Force-fed marshmallows until she exploded?

  “It’s for Mr. Stink,” she said, filing away all those fantasies in her brain for a later date.

  “No way.”

  “I’ll tell Mother you’re the one who’s been secretly scoffing her Bendicks chocolate mints.”

  “What do you need?” replied Annabelle in a heartbeat.

  Later, Mr. Stink sat on an upturned plant pot in the shed as the two girls fussed around him.

  “It’s not too much, is it?” he inquired.

  Unexpectedly enjoying herself, Annabelle had gone a little over the top. Did Mr. Stink really need pink glittery blusher, electric-blue eyeliner, purple eye shadow, and orange nail varnish to go and meet the Prime Minister?

  “Erm . . .” said Chloe.

  “No, you look great, Mr. Stink!” said Annabelle, as she attached a butterfly hair clip to his head. “This is so much fun! It’s the best Christmas Eve ever!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be singing carols in church or something?” asked Chloe knowingly.

  “Yes, but I hate it. It’s so boring. This is way more cool.” Annabelle looked thoughtful. “You know, it’s so tedious sometimes doing all those stupid hobbies and sports and stuff.”

  “Why do them then?” inquired Chloe.

  “Yes, why do them, dear?” chimed in Mr. Stink.

  Annabelle looked confused. “I don’t know really. I suppose to make Mother happy,” she said.

  “Your mother won’t be truly happy if you aren’t. You need to find the things that make you happy,” said Mr. Stink with authority. It was hard to take him seriously, though, what with his multi-colored eye makeup.

  “Well . . . this afternoon has made me happy,” said Annabelle. She smiled at Chloe for the first time in years. “Hanging out with you has made me happy.”

  Chloe smiled back, and they nervously held each other’s gaze for a moment.

  “What about me?” demanded Mr. Stink.

  “You too of course!” laughed Annabelle. “You actually get used to the smell after a while,” she whispered to Chloe, who shushed her and smiled.

  All of a sudden the shed shook violently. Chloe rushed to the door and opened it to see a helicopter hovering overhead. Engine whirring, it slowly came down to land in their garden.

  “Ah, yes. The Prime Minister said he would be sending that to pick us up,” announced Mr. Stink.

  “Us?” said Chloe.

  “You don’t think I was going to go without you, do you?”

  21

  Wet Wipe

  “Why don’t you come too?” shouted Chloe to Annabelle over the thunderous noise of the blades.

  “No, this is your day, Chloe,” her little sister hollered back. “This is all because of you. And besides, that helicopter’s tiny. It’ll absolutely whiff in there. . . .”

  Chloe grinned and waved goodbye as the helicopter slowly ascended, flattening most of the plants and flowers in the garden as it did so. Mother’s bouffant danced around her head like cotton candy on a windy day at the seafront as she attempted to hold it down. Elizabeth the cat got blown across the lawn. She tried desperately to cling onto the grass with her claws. But, despite her meowing for mercy, the wind from the blades was just too strong and she shot across the garden like a furry cannonball and into the pond.

  Plop!

  The Duchess looked down from the helicopter window, smirking.

  As they glided up and up and up Chloe saw her house, and her street, and her town get smaller and smaller. Soon the postal districts were packed below her like squares on a chessboard. It was indescribably thrilling. For the first time in her life, Chloe felt like she was at the center of the world. She looked over at Mr. Stink. He was getting re-acquainted with a toffee bonbon that, from the looks of it, had been in his trouser pocket since the late 1950s. Apart from his jaw working desperately to chew the ancient confectionery, he looked perfectly relaxed, as if taking a helicopter ride to see the Prime Minister was something he did most days.

  Chloe smiled over at him, and he smiled back with that special twinkle in his eye that almost made you forget how bad he smelled.

  Mr. Stink tapped on the pilot’s shoulder. “Are you going to be coming round with meal service at any point?” he asked.

  “It’s just a short flight, sir.”

  “Any chance of a cup of tea and a bun then?”

  “I am very sorry, sir,” replied the pilot with a firmness that suggested this conversation was about to be over.

  “Very disappointing,” said Mr. Stink. Chloe recognized the door of Number Ten Downing Street, because it was always on those boring political shows she was allowed to watch on Sunday mornings. It was big and black and always had a policeman standing outside. She thought, If I joined the police, I would want to be chasing baddies all day, not standing outside a door thinking about whether or not I should have spaghetti hoops for my tea. However, she wisely kept that thought to herself as the policeman opened the door for them with a smile.

  “Please take a seat,” said an immaculately dressed butler haughtily. The staff were used to playing host to royalty and world leaders at 10 Downing Street, not a little girl, a transvestite tramp, and his dog. “The Prime Minister will be with you shortly.”

  They were standing in a big oak-paneled room with dozens of gold-framed oil paintings of serious-looking old men staring out at you from the walls. The tinsel round the frames did little to counter their severe looks. Suddenly, the double doors flew open and a herd of men in suits approached them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stinky!” said the Prime Minister. You could tell he was in charge as he was walking at the front of the herd.

  “It’s just Stink, Prime Minister,” corrected one of his advisers.

  “How are you doing, mate?” said the Prime Minister, trying to downplay his poshness. He offered out his perfectly manicured and moisturized little hand for Mr. Stink to shake. The tramp offered his own big dirty gnarled hand and, looking at it, the Prime Minister quickly withdrew his, preferring to give his new best friend a mock punch on the shoulder. He then examined his knuckles and noticed they had some grime on them.

  “Wet wipe!” he demanded. “Now!”

  A man at the back of the herd hurriedly produced a wet wipe and it was passed forward to the Prime Minister. He quickly wiped his hand with it before passing it back to the man at the back.

  “A pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Mr. Stink without conviction.

  “Call me Dave,” said the Prime Minister. “Gosh, he does smell like a toilet,” he whispered to one of his advisers.

  Mr. Stink looked at Chloe, hurt, but the Prime Minister didn’t notice. “So, you made quite a splash on Question Time, my homeless pal,” he continued. “Ruddy hilarious. Ha ha ha!” He wiped away a nonexistent tear of laughter from his eye. “I think we could use you.”

  “Use him?” asked Chloe suspiciously.

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s no secret it’s not looking good for me in the election. My approval rating with the public right now is . . . ”

  One of the herd hastily opened a folder and there was a long pause as he flicked through pages and pages of information.

  “Bad.”

  “Bad. Right. Thanks, Perkins,” said the Prime Minister, sarcastically.

  “It’s Brownlow.”

  “Whatever.” The Prime Minister turned back to Mr. Stink. “I think if we had you, a real-life tramp, take over from Mrs. Crumb as candidate, it could be brilliant. It’s far too late to rope anyone else in now, and you would be the ideal last-minute replacement. You’re just so funny. I mean, to laugh at, not really with.”

  “Excuse me?” said Chloe, feeling very protective of her friend now.

  The Prime Minister ignored he
r. “It’s genius! It really is. If you joined the party, it would fool the public into thinking we cared about the homeless! Maybe one day I could even make you Minister for Soap Dodgers.”

  “Soap Dodgers?” said Mr. Stink.

  “Yeah, you know, the homeless.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Stink. “And as Minister for the Homeless, I would be able to help other homeless people?”

  “Well, no,” said the Prime Minister. “It wouldn’t mean anything, just make me look like a fantastic tramp-loving guy. Well, wadda you say, Mr. Stinky-poo?”

  Mr. Stink looked very ill at ease. “I don’t . . . I mean . . . I’m not sure—”

  “Are you kidding me?” laughed the Prime Minister. “You’re a tramp! You can’t have anything better to do!”

  The suited herd laughed too. Suddenly Chloe had a flashback to her school. The Prime Minister and his aides were behaving exactly like the gang of mean girls in her year. Still stumbling for words, Mr. Stink looked over to her for help.

  “Prime Minister . . . ?” said Chloe.

  “Yes?” he answered with an expectant smile.

  “Why don’t you stick it up your fat bum!”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, child!” chuckled Mr. Stink. “Goodbye, Prime Minister, and merry Christmas to you all!”

  22

  Long Lion Days

  Chloe and Mr. Stink weren’t invited to take the helicopter home. They had to get the bus.

  As it was Christmas Eve, the bus was chock-full of people, most of them barely visible under their mountains of shopping bags. As Chloe and Mr. Stink sat side by side on the top deck, bare branches dragged against the grimy windows.

  “Did you see the look on his face when you told him to stick it up his . . . ?” exclaimed Mr. Stink.

  “I can’t believe I did that!” said Chloe.

  “I’m so glad you did,” said Mr. Stink. “Thank you so much for sticking up for me.”

  “Well, you stuck up for me with that awful Rosamund!”