by Ivan Brett
“I don’t care if it’s the end of the world, they… Oy, what are you looking at?”
Mayor Rattsbulge was staring at Mrs Snagg’s face. Casper turned to look and saw a collection of little brown lumps on her cheeks and forehead, which he was certain he’d not seen before. “Mrs Snagg, what’re those things on your face?”
“There’s nothing on my face, boy,” she spat, reaching up to feel her skin. With horror, she traced her hands over a few little brown spots. “What… are they?”
Anemonie elbowed past the other children and squinted at Mrs Snagg’s face. “Miss! You’ve got what The Great Tiramisu got!” The spots were already spreading and changing colour to a lemon yellow. Meanwhile, her face had turned lime-greenish and puffy. Anemonie cackled in Mrs Snagg’s face and then skipped away, giggling.
Mrs Snagg felt the first spot burst and shrieked, “Help, make it stop!” But Mayor Rattsbulge was distracted. He was staring at little Teresa Louncher in revulsion, and then back to Mrs Snagg with equal disgust.
“Your face too.” He shuddered, pointing to Teresa with a flabby finger. “You’ve got it as well!” He was right; her face was covered in the little spots.
Teresa’s eyes widened. She touched her cheek, felt a spot and yelped like a puppy when you tread on its paw. Casper watched as her face swelled too, like a big green crying balloon with a pigtail sticking out of one side.
“Hey,” shouted Anemonie, “balloon head! I’m gonner pop you with a pin!” And she started poking Teresa’s face, which made her cry even more.
Mrs Snagg struggled to stay on her feet and grabbed for Mayor Rattsbulge, who cowered away and reached for his shotgun. Teresa had fallen to the floor again, clutching her balloon face and bawling her eyes out. Then the identical twins near the back of the group squealed and pointed at each other’s spots, and Ted Treadington’s face started to swell up and the rest of the class stumbled back in terror.
“Right, that’s it,” announced Mayor Rattsbulge, raising his shotgun and edging slowly back from the group. “Summon the troops. Call a meeting. Everyone who’s not, you know, that, to meet in the village hall tonight at eight!” And then he turned and ran as fast as a man that size could run, screaming at the top of his voice and waving his shotgun around.
See? I told you it got weird.
Chapter 8
Laying the Blame
By eight o’clock the village hall was a buzz of excitement, like a nest of Indonesian Wasps, but with fewer wasps and less intelligence, and an awful lot more soggy idiots. Casper had convinced his dad to get out of bed and come along, but they’d left a screaming Cuddles at home with Amanda, who was taking apart the broken TV and yelling abuse at each different part. As the villagers hustled and bustled about the hall, swapping horror stories and comparing scabs, Casper willed his brain to fit the pieces together. What was happening to the village? Why was everything going all odd? And why did he feel this was his fault?
On the stage at the front of the hall was all quarter-ton of Mayor Rattsbulge, still sporting his tight-fitting military uniform, and Fatima the ferret, determinedly gnawing at her cage. The mayor had calmed down since the pigeon attack, doubtless helped by an afternoon of comfort eating (Casper noticed rather a lot of egg around his mouth and some leftover toast soldiers poking out of his top pocket). Anemonie skipped past, pointy mother in tow, and smirked poisonously at Casper and Julius.
“Yooou cursed the vill-age, yooou cursed the vill-age,” she sang in her screechy little voice, and then she giggled away before Casper could respond.
Cursed? A wave of panic rushed through Casper’s body. What if she was right? After all, that night in the restaurant, The Great Tiramisu did mention a curse…
The meeting was about to begin. Casper and Julius took two seats near the back, and then Lamp trundled over, plumped himself down next to Casper and giggled.
The mayor wobbled to a standing position and surveyed the room regimentally. Some old ladies in the front row produced packed lunches from their bags and tucked in. Mayor Rattsbulge cleared his throat and began.
“People of Corne-on-the-Kobb, we have a situation.”
“Situation? Ha!” mocked Audrey Snugglepuss, standing up so that everyone could see her. “This is worse than a situation. She scratched her head violently. “Someone’s given me nits!”
“An’ my courgette patch ’as been invaded by moles,” said an angry Sandy Landscape, standing up to join Audrey.
“What about my front door?” squeaked a frumpy lady who, until a few hours ago, had been the proud owner of a shiny red front door. “Someone’s nicked it.”
“And mine.”
“My teeth are falling out!”
“The buttons fell off my jacket!”
“I can’t feel my legs!”
“Has anyone seen my mother?”
The place had descended into chaos. Casper felt like the pit of his stomach had tied itself in a sailor’s knot. What had he done?
“SILENCE!” bellowed Mayor Rattsbulge (causing a small earthquake in Bolivia). The hall fell silent, silent as a mouse that had recently had its voice box removed. Even the old ladies were scared to chew on their sandwiches for the noise it would make.
“Now. We mustn’t panic. Will everybody please remain calm?” The mayor took out his considerably shortened Cumberland sausage and took another bite, munching thoughtfully. “Right. If you wish to speak, please raise your hand.”
Two hundred and four idiots raised their hands. The mayor pointed at Audrey Snugglepuss, and she began. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re cursed!”
A general gasp, numerous shrieks, a couple of groans and a grunt arose from the crowd. It took a good three minutes for silence to be restored. Audrey Snugglepuss scratched her head again and continued.
“Think about it – since that Great Tiramisu got poisoned, everything’s been going wrong. He’s cursed us.”
The villagers were visibly shocked. Could it possibly be true? Murmurs of agreement (and spilt flasks of tea) trickled through the village hall. Casper crossed as many fingers as he could possibly cross and held his breath. He knew what was about to happen.
And then, what was about to happen, well, it sort of happened. Audrey Snugglepuss emitted a sudden gasp and, pointing one of her nine remaining fingers at Julius Candlewacks, she said, “…which means it’s his fault.”
Julius gulped. Every idiotic face turned round to look; expressions slipped from amusement to realisation to anger (except for Lamp’s, which stayed puzzled – he didn’t really understand what was happening). People began to whisper.
“Of course, it was him.”
“He poisoned Tiramisu in the first place.”
“Does he know where my mother is?”
But attention shifted again, this time back to the stage. Fatima the ferret, who had until now been happily rooting around in her cage for tasty vole-shaped morsels, had spluttered a little ferrety sneeze. The villagers watched her with terror. Fatima sneezed again, and then sniffed, and blinked, and then sneezed rather violently, before falling neatly backwards to the floor of her cage, making a light flump sound and generating a little cloud of displaced straw bits that gently floated down and settled again.
Not a breath could be heard. The villagers waited for another sound out of the little ferret for a full twenty seconds. Casper grabbed his father’s hand and squeezed hard. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Mayor Rattsbulge said, “Fatima… she’s… Get him!”
Within a moment the entire village hall was screaming, crying and scrambling towards Julius Candlewacks.
“He killed Fatima!”
“Murderer!”
“He’ll pay for this!”
Casper tried to shield Julius from the angry crowd, but they pushed past easily and lugged him towards the stage.
“Please, it wasn’t his fault. Leave him alone!”
Julius was led towards Mayor Rattsbulge, who was clutching Fatima’s floppy body to his breast and
whispering into her ear. He spotted Julius and stuffed Fatima ingloriously back in her cage, wiped his eyes and straightened himself up.
“Julius Candlewacks, you’ve cursed our village and you’ve… you’ve killed my ferret! With the power vested in me as Mayor of Corne-on-the-Kobb, I decree that you are guilty of the utterly unforgivable crimes of curse-inducing and… um… ferret murdering; and you shall be fed to the pigeons at the strike of midnight!”
The villagers cheered savagely. Casper’s mouth fell open in shock. Terror, guilt and anger pumped through his veins as he battled his way through the crowd. How could the villagers turn on his dad like this?
“You’ve got it wrong!” he cried, waving his arms around. “Julius isn’t the villain, it’s The Great Tiramisu. Listen to me!”
But it was useless; Mayor Rattsbulge had made his decision. “Take him away, men.”
Casper couldn’t believe what was happening. He caught his poor father’s eye as he was dragged helplessly towards the door. “It’s all my fault!” he shouted. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I’ll save you, I promise!”
Julius looked back at Casper, defeat in his eyes. The villagers clapped and cheered as they carried him away, into the stormy village square. Last to leave was Anemonie Blight, sticking her slimy little tongue out at Casper and then skipping out of the door, giggling. As the door slammed shut and the hall fell silent, a big brick wall of fear hit Casper right in the face and he broke down into hot frustrated tears. He was completely alone, with no hope of saving his dad, and it was all his fault.
Casper heard a spongy shuffling noise from beside him and felt a warm arm on his shoulder. He turned to see Lamp, sporting a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Casper. I haven’t got my hanky.” Casper wiped his eyes on his jumper and sobbed.
Lamp looked around the room helplessly. “Do you want a go on my buggy now?”
Chapter 9
The Bubbel Buggy
When Casper and Lamp left the village hall, it was raining so hard that if they had tried to measure it with a rain-hardness-o-meter, they would’ve got the reading TIME TO BUILD AN ARK. It was as heavy as Mayor Rattsbulge after Christmas dinner. It was as if a squadron of swimming-pool planes all just sprang a leak while flying over Corne-on-the-Kobb. It was like everyone in heaven had forgotten to turn off their showers and gone out for the day. Basically, it was weather for a snorkel.
As they waded back through the square, Casper looked at his chubby little companion in his greasy blue boiler suit (and saturated sponge shoes), and let out a deep sigh. Lamp Flannigan was all that he had left. He longed for his boring old life, before The Great Tiramisu, the coriander and the curse. Imaginary danger was more than enough for Casper; real-life danger was big and scary and, well, real. He wished he could rewind the tape to stop himself from taking revenge and creating this mess in the first place.
Lamp had been deep in thought for a while, and finally said, “At least in the rain no one will see you’ve been crying.” He patted Casper on his wet back. “That’s a good thing.”
Casper’s thoughts strayed back to Julius. “How am I going to save my dad, Lamp?”
Lamp shrugged. “Sock puppets?”
“We need to save him. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Casper didn’t want to admit it, but he knew he’d really miss his dad. Who’d wash his clothes every month? Who’d burn his dinner? Who’d change Cuddles’s nappy?
Casper shuddered. “We absolutely have to get him back.”
The boys reached what used to be the park, but was now, more accurately, a swamp. They picked their way across on the solid bits, avoiding the crocodiles.
“I’ve got a plan,” said Lamp, “but it does involve flying and I don’t think either of us can fly.”
Casper was a bit behind, having almost lost his shoe to the quagmire. “We just need to lift the curse, then there’ll be no need to… you know… feed the pigeons.”
“But The Great Terrapin has gone, Casper, you know that,” Lamp said, leaping to the next dry patch. “And I don’t know how to lift any curses.”
“It’s my fault. I wanted to get my own back and I just got carried away. I didn’t think this would happen.” Casper caught up with Lamp on a wobbly tuffet and tipped some pond life out of his shoes.
“He deserved it,” said Lamp.
“I know, but…”
“You know you can’t just shout at a walrus, Casper. My mum told me that. It’s bad manners.”
The boys swam the rest of the way to the other side of the park and arrived exhausted, but alive. (Lamp had caught a fish in his overalls and was inspecting it hungrily.)
As hard as he’d tried, Casper still hadn’t come up with a plan. “It’s useless,” he groaned. “I give up.” He left a disappointed and muddy Lamp standing at the park gate and turned to squelch the rest of the way home, colliding head first with the postbox, still sporting the poster of The Great Tiramisu, moustache in full bloom. He grunted and trod on, before stopping in his tracks and turning back to face the poster.
“Oh, I am such an idiot.”
“You’re not really,” said Lamp.
“No, look!” Casper’s face was animated for the first time since the meeting. “Read the poster.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lamp, which was true because he didn’t understand. But he did as he was told and read the poster. He saw a picture of The Great Taramasalata, a little description, a list of tour dates… “I still don’t understand,” he said, still not understanding.
“Don’t you see? The tour dates! What’s today?”
“Rainy?”
“No, what day? What day is it?”
Lamp looked at his socks. “My socks say Monday.”
Casper tracked his finger down the poster, mumbling to himself. “Saturday, Sunday, AH!”
“What?” The suspense was too much for Lamp’s poor brain, which was fragile at the best of times. (When Lamp is asked two questions at the same time, he usually faints.)
“Upper Crustenbury! He’s performing tonight in the Upper Crustenbury Village Hall!”
Lamp swapped from Casper’s joyous face to the poster, and the rusty cogs in his tiny brain began to turn. “So… we go to Upper Crustybelly and find The Great Terracotta, and get him to lift the curse.” Lamp clapped his hands. “Hang on, how do we do that?”
“How do I know? We’ll work it out on the way.” Lamp had never been on an adventure before. “This is so exciting! I’m going to wear my glow-in-the-dark trousers.”
“Please don’t.”
“Not the trousers. Got it.”
“So it’s sorted. I’ll run home and get my dad to drive us to…” Casper paused. His face went pale. “Lamp… who’s going to drive us there? My mum won’t leave the house, and my dad’s… busy.”
“Well, my mum can’t either. She’s been banned from using any heavy machinery since that tumble-drying thing last year.”
Casper threw his head in his hands again. Today was by far the worst day of his life (apart from the one with the penguins, but we’ve covered that) and it showed no signs of getting better.
“Well,” said Lamp, “we could always use my buggy.”
Casper eyed Lamp with pity. “Look, Lamp. Your inventions don’t work. They’ve never worked. You can’t run an engine on washing-up liquid.”
“But I have! I’ve made it work!”
“You haven’t!” Casper was soaked and upset and still not in the mood for Lamp’s make-believe machines. “You can’t have.”
Lamp fixed Casper in the eye and spoke very slowly. “Casper, I know you think I’m stupid. I probably am. I mess up my words and I fall over, and I can’t do my times tables or read books like you can. But you have to believe me, Casper. My buggy works, and I can drive us to Upper Crustybelly, and we can save your dad.”
“I… I’m sorry, Lamp.” Casper closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s OK. Now, come on, what are we waiting for?”
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Casper nodded his head. He might as well give it a try; it wasn’t as if he had any other options. Lamp’s buggy, however absurd, was his only chance to save his dad.
“All right then, let’s go.”
As they hurried off together towards Lamp’s house, Lamp tripped over his own feet and sloshed to the ground.
Five soaking minutes and twenty-three soggy seconds later, the two boys had arrived. Lamp’s garage was a place of wonder. Spanners, wrenches and pencil sharpeners of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls. Spare wheels and planks of wood were piled up in the corner by an old transistor radio wired up to a microwave. “When there’s salsa music playing, it makes the food hot,” he explained.
Just above that a hamster was running furiously on a wheel, barely powering the dim light bulb that illuminated the garage. The whole place smelt of burning and soap. To Casper’s right was a large blackboard, covered in Lamp’s complicated chalky scribblings, like
and
But taking up most of the space was Lamp’s washing-up-liquid-powered buggy. Casper stared at the vehicle in awe. Lamp’s mum’s two-seater leather sofa sat within a sturdy metal frame, supported by four wonky tractor wheels. On the driver’s side was a wooden steering wheel made from a toilet seat, and a bent golf club for a gear stick. To finish it off, Lamp had written THE BUBBEL BUGGY down each side in vibrant pink paint and attached a pair of his mum’s bloomers to a broomstick on the top of the frame for a makeshift flag.
“Lamp, this is… incredible.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’ll like it if it drives us to Upper Crustenbury.”
Lamp chuckled and nodded for Casper to climb in. It was surprisingly comfortable, actually (once Casper had found a place to put his legs). Lamp yanked the garage door open, snapped on a pair of antique flying goggles and clambered into the driver’s seat.
“Ready?”
“Ready!”
Lamp twisted a doorknob on the dashboard and to Casper’s utter amazement the engine kicked into life with a resonant grumble. A spray of oily bubbles spewed from the exhaust pipe on to the garage floor, and with a grind of the golf club they were off. Casper roared with delight as they turned the corner and splashed down the flooded street, causing a minor tidal wave that destroyed Sandy Landscape’s cabbages. Within moments they were speeding away from the village, off to find The Great Tiramisu, and save Casper’s dad.