The Donut Diaries

by Dermot Milligan

  I winked. I was letting him know that he and his money were safe. He nodded back. He could probably see what I was doing – building up an early lead to keep things exciting, before falling back later on.

  And now I was beginning to get the donut sweats. Fifteen. Sixteen. I paused for breath. The Destroyer, for the first time, began to look a little worried, and upped his pace.

  Soon my pile was half finished. I lay back on the floor for a rest. I had the beginnings of an ache in my belly that I knew must eventually emerge as a monstrous burp. As I rested, so Demetrius sped on. He had gone past me now, into the thirties. Some of the crowd began to jeer – most of them had put their money on me, and they were getting angry.

  ‘Come on, you fat oaf,’ someone shouted. Another threw a shoe at me. But my experience of Peruvian shoe-throwing meant that I was able to catch it and toss it back. It was just the spur I needed. I was up again and eating.

  Demetrius was looking ill by now. He’d reached forty donuts, and it was his turn to slump back for a break. He emitted a great belch like the mating call of a mastodon in an ancient swamp.

  And now I’d got my second wind. I passed his tally at forty-two. But now I felt that there was simply no room left inside me. Every square millimetre was already taken up with donut.

  The crowd were growing frantic. They were on their feet. I couldn’t pick out individual voices any more: it was just a wall of noise.

  OK, it was time for me to get some air out of my system. I burped – not the great vulgar bellowing of the Destroyer, just a normal one, lasting about three seconds. But it was enough. I was back in the game.

  Seven to eat. The Destroyer was down to his last three. But he had gone a very strange colour. Something in between green and purple. Grurple, perhaps.

  Six left.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  We were neck and neck now. The Destroyer was back at the platter. His hand was shaking. His face was crusted with icing sugar and donut crumbs.

  Together we ate – donut to donut.

  Two left.

  Weird lights were flashing in my eyes. Was this the dreaded donut narcosis I’d heard about – a bit like the bends that deep-sea divers suffer from, but caused, not by bubbles of nitrogen in the bloodstream, but by donut molecules furring up the brain arteries?

  We were both on our final donut.

  The Destroyer sized it up. Moved it towards his mouth, but he was still chewing the remains of the previous three. He staggered and swayed, each stumble greeted with a groan or sigh from the crowd. He belched again, and was clearly on the verge of a major digestive incident.

  It was now, with Demetrius swaying before the platter, that I took out the little packet that J-Man had given me. It was one of the sachets of salt occasionally smuggled in to give the gruel some flavour. Salt was banned, so they were rare and valuable. I carefully ripped it open and deliberately stumbled forward to the table. As subtly as I could, I poured the grains into Demetrius’s glass of water. No one seemed to notice or care what I was doing – they were too mesmerized by the Destroyer’s attempt to get the last donut into his mouth.

  He did it. But the claggy mass would not go down. It was then that he reached for his glass of water. He gulped it down in one.

  In an instant his face went through a series of violent changes. Happiness, confusion, horror.

  Ever gulped salty water? If you have, you know what happens. And it was happening now to the Destroyer.

  SPLEEUUUUUUUUURGGGGGGGGH HHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

  The puke spume flew in a high arc, covering Hercule and Boss Skinner and Doc Morlock and many of the other dignitaries. Foul-smelling donut soup was everywhere, in hair and eyes, noses and mouths. Oh yes, the Destroyer sure knew how to vomit. And as everyone knows, it never rains but it pours when it comes to puking. Others in the crowd joined in. One lady puked silently into her handbag. Doc Morlock, her mouth full of vomit, snatched off Badwig’s bad wig, and spewed into it. Even Gustav, the horrid sausage dog, joined in, puking violently on Boss Skinner’s lap.

  The stadium was awash.

  It was a vomit bath.

  A pukathon.

  It was awesome.

  And now it was my time of glory. With one elegant and practised movement, I crammed my last donut into my mouth, chewed, swallowed.

  I heard a strangled, ‘Nooooooo!’ from Hercule Paine, so piercing it cut through the general uproar.

  I had won.

  He had lost.

  Boss Skinner wiped puke from his eyes and grabbed a paintball gun from below his chair. He aimed it at my chest and pulled the trigger. The barrel, however, was blocked with vomit, and it blew up in his face, adding an attractive top coat of red to the puke.

  Paine was weeping. Doc Morlock had a look of pure murder on her evil face. ‘Get him!’ she screamed. ‘And bring me my badgers!’

  Vomit-covered Lardies and goons moved towards me, but I was already running.

  The endgame was here.

  I burst out through the double doors of the puke-pit. Renfrew was poised and ready. He slammed them shut behind me, and then tied the handles together using his belt.

  ‘Won’t hold them long,’ he said as the doors bent under the force of a hefty Lardy shoulder-barge.

  It didn’t matter. We were already out of the admin block, moving faster than we’d ever moved before. True, it wasn’t actually that fast, but you have to remember that Renfrew had very little legs, and I was carrying fifty donuts inside me. But we also had the fate of a camp full of fat kids, plus about a hundred badgers, on our shoulders, so that drove us on.

  Of course, there were no goons out on patrol, and the watchtowers were unmanned, or else we’d have been cut down like poor old Ernesto Gogol.

  But I did hear the pounding of heavy feet behind us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a group of Lardies coming after us. Somehow they’d got hold of paintball guns. My guess was that the goons had handed them over, and told them to finish us off – they didn’t want to get their hands dirty in the actual massacre. A couple of speculative rounds whizzed over our heads, and one splatted on a hut in front of us.

  I saw the narrow passage leading to the grim horror of Hut Nineteen. And yes, there, waiting for us, were the reassuring shapes I had come to know so well. They were arranged in a phalanx formation, Spartan style.

  J-Man stepped forward. To my delight, I saw that he was carrying a paintball gun.

  ‘So, the raid on the armoury went well?’ I panted.

  ‘As you see. Now, go and do your job, and we will do ours.’

  ‘Just hold them off for as long as you can.’

  ‘They shall not pass.’

  I shook his hand, and then shook the hands of the others: Igor, Florian Frost, Dong.

  Brave men.

  Then I ran through the laser corridor, ignoring the laser detectors. No need to hide or crawl now that the game was afoot.

  Behind me I heard the first exchanges: the yells of annoyance and surprise from the Lardies, followed by the first cries of pain. J-Man giving orders.

  ‘Front rank, fire! Second rank, fire!’

  I knew that they couldn’t hold out for ever against those numbers. They just had to buy me and Renfrew enough time to get away with the badgers.

  We didn’t bother with the window this time: I just kicked the door down, like a proper action hero (OK, the wood was rotten, but it was still a pretty good feeling).

  Inside, I sensed the badgers’ excitement immediately. They seemed to know that great (or terrible) things were happening.

  As we’d planned, Renfrew pulled away the loose floorboards and opened the trap door while I ran to open the badger cages. On the way, I couldn’t resist having a quick look through the window. There were dozens of Lardies lying dazed and splattered across the field, but the Hut Four heroes were being driven steadily back. I saw my guys take hits: the red rounds punching them in the chest, in the arms, in the face. But
somehow they still held the narrow passage.

  Back to the cages. Some of the beasts were so traumatized that they retreated, terrified of freedom. Others snapped and hissed, unaware that I was their friend, not their tormentor. But most jumped straight out. That encouraged the rest, and soon the hut was a writhing mass of badger.

  I went back to the window again. I saw that my men had fallen back through the pass. Their ammo was out – but so, it seemed, was that of the enemy. As I watched I saw the huge figure of Demetrius the Destroyer lumber forward. He was met by Dong, who blocked his way. They wrestled like two great sumo champions. The Destroyer dwarfed Dong, but Dong had the technique, and he threw the bigger man on his back.

  But then an even bulkier figure stepped forward – Hercule Paine himself. He calmly took a paintball Luger from inside his jacket, and casually shot Dong between the eyes. The Chinese kid was down and out. But his place was taken by J-Man.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ I heard Paine sneer. ‘It’s over. You know it’s over.’

  ‘I told my friend no one was getting through. You want to try to make me a liar? Bring it on!’

  I last saw the two of them grappling together in the narrow pass. But I could not wait for the outcome. I heard the first baying of the hounds: the dogs were coming!

  ‘Come on, Dermot,’ Renfrew yelled. ‘We’ve got to get out now, or it’s all for nothing.’

  ‘You go first,’ I said, this time meaning it as a favour to my little friend, and not out of fear of the dark or spiders or the ghosts of long-dead Italian prisoners. ‘I’ll follow behind the badgers and drive them on.’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s got to be you. If the Lardies get down in the tunnel with us, I’ll hold them off. You have to get through to tell the world the truth about Camp Fatso. You’ve lived it. You tell it.’

  There was no time to debate the issue. I nodded and threw myself down the shaft, pushing through the cluster of nervous badgers who were already there, snickering and snapping. I sensed, to my relief, that the others were all coming behind me. Whether they were really following me, Pied Piper style, or just fleeing from the sound of the dreaded sausage dogs, I couldn’t say.

  I entered the tunnel. It definitely seemed to have shrunk a little since my first reconnaissance mission . . .

  Sweating now, heart racing, every nerve on fire, I crawled and crawled and crawled. Had it really been this long before? The badgers were pressing behind me: this was their world, and they sensed freedom and safety ahead, as well as the peril behind. But there was no room for them to squeeze past.

  And then suddenly I was at the exit shaft. Exhausted, I heaved myself up the ladder, reached above my head, thrust at the trap door, flung it back. Fresh air. Hope. Salvation.

  My head was through. My arms. Then . . . nothing. I shoved, pushed, heaved, but I was stuck fast.

  But how? Had the opening somehow narrowed?

  No. Of course.

  The fifty donuts!

  Beneath me I felt the pressure build, heard the sounds of a hundred desperate badgers. OUCH! A sharp nip. They were turning on me! I had to get out or they would tear me apart! Eaten alive by badgers – what a way to go.

  I heard a voice from below.

  ‘Dermot, what is it?’

  I couldn’t get my head down to answer, and didn’t want to yell out in case I gave away our position.

  And then I sensed movement above me. Two figures emerged from the gloom of the trees.

  Goons!

  Failure.

  It had all been for nothing. I felt strong arms grab me, tug me, lift me. I was out.

  And I smelled a strong, familiar smell.

  ‘Pfumpf.’

  ‘Well done, Donut,’ said another voice. ‘Looks like you pulled it off. The Badger Protection League is for ever in your debt.’

  ‘Ludmilla . . .Tamara . . . what are you doing here?’

  ‘Explain later. We’ve got to move. These woods are patrolled,’ said Tamara.

  ‘Right. But wait – Renfrew.’

  I watched the badgers stream out of the escape tunnel, flowing like excited furry water. They were free and safe. I sensed their joy as they capered and danced through the trees.

  And then finally Renfrew’s head emerged, and Ludmilla lifted him out, as easily as you’d lift your pet hamster out of its cage.

  But elsewhere in the woods I heard the sounds of pursuit. Goons shouting, dogs yapping.

  We ran blindly through the trees, with the thick undergrowth tearing at our clothes. Finally we made it to the road.

  ‘If we get to the village we’ll be safe,’ said Tamara. ‘We can call the police from there.’

  And then I saw the lights of an approaching car.

  ‘Flag it down,’ said Renfrew. ‘We can get a lift.’

  Ludmilla stepped out into the middle of the road like a huge iron robot. The car stopped.

  ‘Get in,’ said a voice.

  We piled into the back seats, our relief gushing out as breathless laughter. The car felt safe. Outside I saw the beams of torches cutting through the trees. The car started moving. I looked at the hands on the steering wheel. They were clothed in black gloves. But there was something unnatural about the flesh beneath.

  Something . . . artificial.

  The driver turned slowly towards us. And there I saw the grimly smiling face of Mr Fricker.

  Saturday 14 April

  ‘FRICKER!’ SQUEAKED SPAM. ‘No way!’

  ‘F-f-f-f-f-flipping h-h-h-heck,’ said Corky, whose stammer was definitely improving.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Spam. ‘If you got nabbed by Fricker, how come you’re here and not, like, dog meat or something?’

  We were sitting on the wall by the canal. It was the usual gang: Spam, Renfrew, Corky and Jim. And me, of course. I’d been telling the story, while Renfrew sat quietly, an enigmatic smile on his face. Well, the enigmatic smile alternated with bulging cheeks as he ate one of the donuts I’d bought for everyone.

  ‘Don’t you get it? He was a member of the Badger Protection League. He just infiltrated Camp Fatso to help rescue them. He knew where the tunnel came out, and arranged for Tamara and Ludmilla to be there when we emerged. He’s a bit like Q in James Bond.’

  ‘Oh, cool,’ said Spam. ‘So, he’s a goody, after all? Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘The world’s a complicated place, Spam,’ I said. ‘It’s possible that the same person can be a goody and a baddy, depending on . . . stuff . . . er . . . circumstances.’

  ‘But what happened next?’ asked Spam. ‘I mean, with the camp, and your friends, J-Man and the others?’

  ‘Oh, as soon as we raised the alarm the security forces went in there and liberated the place – but not before J-Man and the rest of the Hut Four guys managed to break into Hut One and liberated all the crisps and chocolate the Lardies had stashed there. J-Man texted me just after he got out – he said kids were wandering around with chocolate all over their faces, hallucinating on their sugar-and-salt highs, and the Lardies could do nothing about it. The camp’s been closed down now. They’ll never be able to torture kids with gruel again. And the badgers are safe.’

  ‘What about Doc Morlock?’

  ‘I heard she escaped. But somehow I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.’

  ‘What a load of old rubbish,’ laughed Jim, who’s known me much longer than the others. ‘You might fool these guys, but I know what you’re like, Dermot. You’re just making it all up. You had a boring two weeks in fat camp and thought you’d turn it into one of your stories. I mean, badgers . . . goons . . . guns . . . electric fences . . . it’s a joke. Come on, tell us, Renfrew – it’s all a load of claptrap, isn’t it?’

  Renfrew shrugged and pointed to his full mouth, indicating that he couldn’t speak. The others all took that as an admission that we’d invented the story. I wasn’t going to protest. Sometimes the more you go on about something, particularly if it’s about what a hero you are, and how
you’ve saved loads of badgers from a terrible fate, the less people are inclined to believe you.

  And then I saw a group of girls walking towards us along the path by the canal. It was Tamara Bello with the posse of scary girls who’d been there for the toenail incident, which now felt like about a hundred years ago. Ludmilla was with them as well. It looked like they’d given her a bit of a makeover. She looked quite nice in her pfumpfish way.

  I got ready for an unpleasant combination of being ignored and insulted.

  Instead, Tamara came up to me. She was eating a packet of crisps. She held out the bag, right there, in front of her girls and my guys.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘Huh? Oh, what flavour?’

  She looked at me for a moment, a half-smile on her lips.

  ‘Badger.’

  DONUT COUNT:

  I gave all my donuts to the guys. After the fifty I ate yesterday, even the donut-eating champion of Camp Fatso needs a day off.

  About the Author

  Dermot Milligan is eleven, obese and has just started at Big School. He’s a big fan of The Lord of the Rings, and he hates his evil sisters, Ruby and Ella (Rubella). His all-time favourite donut is the classic ring, but he’s also very keen on jam.

  Also by Anthony McGowan

  The Donut Diaries

  The Donut Diaries: Revenge Is Sweet

  Einstein’s Underpants

  And How They Saved the World

  (Shortlisted for the Roald Dahl Funny Prize 2010)

  The Bare Bum Gang and the Holy Grail

  The Bare Bum Gang and the Valley of Doom

  The Bare Bum Gang and the Football Face-off

  The Bare Bum Gang Battle the Dogsnatchers

  For older readers:

  Hellbent

  Henry Tumour

  (Winner of the Booktrust Teenage Prize 2006)