There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘I expect the driver took you to the Viking Cafe,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘They often make that mistake.’ But Mrs Tibblethwaite was hardly paying any attention to him.

  ‘We went to The Viking Cafe, The Viking Restaurant, The Viking's Delight, The Viking Chinese Take-away and The Viking Burgerbar.’

  ‘Well, you're here now,’ smiled Mr Ellis, seizing the heavy suitcase. ‘Follow me, and I'll show you to your room.’

  ‘Just why are there so many Viking places around here?’ asked Mrs Tibblethwaite, stomping up the stairs behind Mr Ellis.

  ‘Ah, well, over a thousand years ago, Flotby was a favourite target for the Viking raiders from Denmark. There are lots of Viking relics round here and we have a Viking Festival at the end of every summer. Now, the bathroom is at the end of the corridor. You've got a lovely view of the sea from Room Four. The other guests are at breakfast now. Would you like to join them?’

  ‘No thank you, I ate on the train. I don't know what it was. It arrived on a plate all wrapped up: I suppose they were afraid it might spread germs if it wasn't kept wrapped. Anyhow, I'm not hungry. What time is lunch?’

  ‘That's at one o'clock. You'll see all the hotel details on the notice in your room.’ Mr Ellis opened the door to Room Four and pushed the suitcase in. Then he hurried back downstairs to help with the breakfasts.

  ‘What's she like?’ asked Mrs Ellis under her breath, as they passed between the tables pouring coffee and serving extra toast.

  ‘She'll eat you for dinner. One gulp and you'll be gone.’

  ‘Oh dear, all I need now is a difficult guest – as if the Ambroses aren't bad enough.’

  At that moment, there was a loud cry from the top of the stairs.

  ‘Mr Ellis! Mr Ellis! I say, Mr Ellis!’

  Penny grinned at her husband. ‘Oh Mr Ellis, I think that's your favourite guest, Mr Ellis. Do go and see what the matter is!’

  ‘I'll give you “Mr Ellis”,’ he growled. He put down the coffee pot and hurried to the staircase.

  ‘Mr Ellis,’ cried Mrs Tibblethwaite, clutching the stair rail with one hand. Her face was white and trembling.

  Mr Ellis took the stairs two at a time. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Mr Ellis, there's a Viking in my bed!’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite suddenly stopped shaking, drew herself up to her full (small) height and fixed Mr Ellis with two extraordinarily dagger-like eyes. ‘I mean, Mr Ellis, that there is a Viking in my bed. What do you think I mean? If I say there is a Viking in my bed, I mean there is a Viking in my bed. Why don't you come and look for yourself?’

  She grabbed Mr Ellis by one arm and hauled him off down the corridor. She kicked open her bedroom door and pushed Mr Ellis in front of her. He entered the room carefully and went across to the bed. No. There was nothing. Certainly the covers were all mucked up as if someone had slept there, but there was no sign of a soul.

  ‘I think you must have been dreaming, Mrs Tibblethwaite.’

  ‘I was not dreaming, Mr Ellis. There was a Viking in my bed. Good heavens man, do you think I don't know a Viking when I see one? He still had his helmet on. And his boots! I insist that you search the room.’

  Mr Ellis groaned. He got down on his hands and knees and looked beneath the bed. He pulled back the curtains and shouted, ‘Boo!’

  ‘There's no need to act the fool,’ said Mrs Tibblethwaite coldly.

  ‘There's nobody here,’ said Mr Ellis, crossing to the wardrobe and pulling open the double doors.

  A million coathangers seemed to burst from the wardrobe and a monster sprang yelling into the room, all arms and legs and hair. His black tangled beard had bits of seaweed hanging from it. His eyes glittered from beneath huge, shaggy eyebrows and a dented, two-horned helmet.

  Sigurd snatched Nosepicker from the scabbard, glaring at the two strange creatures in front of him.

  ‘Raargh!’ he snarled, swishing Nosepicker through the air and slicing off a bit of curtain. ‘Rrraargh!’

  Mr Ellis simply stared, quite stupified. His brain had gone into shock. He could not move his tongue or lips. No sound would come from his throat. His feet felt as if they had been nailed to the floor. His arms were like lead sausage rolls.

  Mrs Tibblethwaite poked him. ‘There, you see? I told you there was a Viking in my bed. Now, if this is some kind of welcome committee, I don't think very much of it. And if it's some kind of joke, it isn't very funny. Don't just stand there, Mr Ellis, do something.’

  Mr Ellis did do something. He fainted. Sigurd gave a loud laugh and stepped towards Mrs Tibblethwaite.

  ‘Oh no, you don't, you overgrown hairpiece. Take that, and that!’ She began to beat the Viking with her handbag, almost knocking his helmet off.

  Sigurd yelped, decided he'd had enough and ran from the room. He plunged down the stairs and almost fell headlong into the dining room, stopping himself just in time. He stood on the bottom step, panting and brandishing Nosepicker, while seven very startled hotel guests put down their toast and coffee and stared back at him.

  3

  Discoveries

  Tim and Zoe walked into the dining room to discover their mother and seven guests huddled together on one side, while a strange hairy man glared at them from the other.

  ‘Hello,’ shouted Tim. ‘Who are you? I like your sword.’

  Before Mrs Ellis could make a grab at him, Tim was walking across the room, a big smile on his face. ‘Is it a real sword or just plastic? I bet it's plastic.’

  Sigurd watched Tim warily, but the boy was only a small child. He couldn't do any harm to a fierce Viking warrior like himself. Sigurd grinned back: he was a nice-looking lad.

  ‘It is plastic, isn't it?’ laughed Tim. ‘That's why you're smiling. Come on, show me.’ With that, he calmly reached out and took the sword from Sigurd.

  It was difficult to tell who was the most surprised. Sigurd was left empty-handed and unarmed. A five-year-old child had just taken his sword from him. Was he dreaming? No, because Tim had collapsed to the floor beneath the weight of the weapon. His eyes were popping.

  ‘Wow! It is a real sword. A real, real, really real sword! Hey Zoe, it's a real sword!’

  At that moment, Mr Ellis appeared at the top of the stairs with Mrs Tibblethwaite. Poor Mr Ellis was still in a state of shock. This was not surprising, because Mrs Tibblethwaite had spent the last three minutes trying to bring him round from his faint. First of all she had sat him upright and slapped his face several times. His cheeks were still red and sore. That hadn't worked so she'd begun to give him the kiss of life. At this point, Mr Ellis had woken up, found himself being kissed to death by Mrs Tibblethwaite and promptly fainted again, so the stout lady had jabbed him with her hat pin. That soon had him on his feet.

  Now the pair were coming slowly downstairs, while Sigurd looked about in desperation. He was surrounded. He could not imagine where he was. This was a nightmare. None of the great stories of raids he had heard in Denmark had prepared him for anything like this. He had never before seen a room or people like these. Truly, this was some horrible nightmare he was in.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. The voices around him seemed to swim through his brain, echoing and gurgling. The walls of the dining room grew taller and taller until they started to bend in towards him, falling on him, falling…

  Sigurd tottered forward and crashed unconscious across a breakfast table.

  A glass of orange juice flew through the air, nicely sprinkling the guests as it passed overhead. A plate of egg and bacon spun off the table like some weird flying saucer. It deposited its passengers in an eggy mess on the carpet, then flew on, hit a wall and shattered.

  Sigurd lay across the table, quite still. There was a short silence and then everyone started shouting and screaming at once. Mrs Ellis rushed across and hugged Tim, although he hadn't got a clue why. Mr Ellis ran down the stairs calling for calm.

  ‘It's quite all right, everyone. Sorry
about the unexpected guest. He's obviously some party-goer who had too much to drink last night. If you wouldn't mind going to the lounge, we'll clear up and serve breakfast again in ten minutes. I do apologise for this most unexpected event.’

  Mrs Ellis helped some of the guests out of the room, while Mrs Tibblethwaite stood at the top of the stairs, watching with one raised eyebrow. ‘Do I understand, Mr Ellis, that you don't know this creature?’

  ‘Of course not, Mrs Tibblethwaite.’ Mr Ellis groaned as he tried to move Sigurd's heavy body from the table. His foot caught on a chair leg and the two of them crashed to the floor.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ cried the stout lady, marching down the stairs. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

  ‘Are you all right, Dad?’ asked Zoe. There was a muffled reply and Mr Ellis crawled out from beneath the Viking. Together they turned Sigurd over so that he was facing the ceiling.

  ‘What a mess. Look at him, drunk as a pig,’ snapped Mrs Tibblethwaite.

  ‘It's a brill sword, Dad,’ cried Tim. ‘Look!’

  ‘It's a pretty good costume too,’ Zoe added. ‘It's so real. Pongs a bit, though.’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite sniffed loudly. ‘That's the drink.’

  ‘I don't think so,’ murmured Mr Ellis. ‘Smells more like sea-water to me – and old food and damp leather.’

  ‘Disgusting. He should be put in a bath at once.’

  Mr Ellis thought for a moment. Penny asked if she should call the police, but her husband shook his head. ‘This man is only drunk. I bet he'll have a splitting headache – and feel very embarrassed – when he wakes up. We'll put him in Room Twelve, where he can sleep it off. Mrs Tibblethwaite, would you mind helping us get this Viking up to Room Twelve? I'm so sorry you found him in your bedroom. I can't think how it happened.’

  Surprisingly, Mrs Tibblethwaite was now quite calm about the whole business. ‘It's all right, Mr Ellis. Hotel rooms are usually such dull places. I must admit it was a shock to find him asleep in my bed, but at least it's something I shall remember for a long time. I'll take his left leg.’

  It took five of them to carry Sigurd up the stairs to Room Twelve, and there they laid him out on the bed.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Tibblethwaite, ‘all that excitement has made me hungry. Perhaps I'll have breakfast after all.’

  ‘Of course. The other guests will want some too.’ Mrs Ellis hurried back downstairs.

  ‘I'm just coming,’ added her husband. ‘Tim, Zoe, stay here and keep an eye on this chap, will you? Come and tell us the moment he wakes up.’

  Downstairs, The Viking Hotel returned to normal. All was calm in the dining room as the guests finally finished their breakfast, and soon the unwelcome visitor was forgotten.

  However, things in Room Twelve were not calm at all. Just as Tim and Zoe were beginning to get rather bored with watching a sleeping body, Sigurd began to stir. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up. Then he clutched his head and fell back.

  ‘He's got a headache,’ said Zoe. ‘Dad said he'd have a headache. Give him some water, Timmy.’

  Sigurd took the water gratefully, and managed to prop himself up on a few pillows while he drank. He glanced at the two children and round the room. He felt for his sword, but of course it was gone. Sigurd sighed. It was quite plain to him that he had been captured. Now he would probably be killed. There was no mercy for Viking raiders.

  ‘Hello,’ smiled Zoe. ‘I'm Zoe. This is my brother, Timmy.’

  ‘Tim, not Timmy,’ grunted her brother.

  ‘How do you feel?’ said Zoe.

  Sigurd listened to the strange noises being made by the children. He could not understand a word. Zoe was watching his face carefully. ‘I don't think he understands, Tim. I don't think he's English.’

  ‘Of course he isn't. He's a Viking, a real Viking.’

  ‘Don't be stupid.’ Zoe pointed at herself and said her name several times. Sigurd nodded. He pointed at himself, too, and repeated, ‘Zoe, Zoe.’

  ‘No, not you, me!’ She took the Viking's hand and used it to point at herself. ‘Zoe,’ she said once more. Then she made Sigurd point at Tim and she said his name, too.

  Sigurd's face lit up with a grin. ‘Ah, Zoe!’ he cried. Then he pointed at her brother. ‘Timmy!’

  ‘Not Timmy! Tim!’

  The Viking pointed at himself. ‘Sigurd,’ he announced proudly.

  Tim glanced up at the big warrior. ‘Well, I'm going to call him Siggy,’ he said moodily. The Viking banged his chest and glared back at Tim.

  ‘Sigurd,’ he repeated. ‘Hedeby. Sigurd, Hedeby.’

  ‘All right,’ muttered Tim. ‘Keep your hair on. If you want to be called Sigurd Hedeby, you can call me Tim Ellis. In fact, you can call me Master Tim Ellis.’

  ‘Oh do shut up, Tim,’ Zoe butted in, giving her brother a push. ‘You do go on sometimes. Didn't he say Hedeby?’

  ‘Sigurd, Hedeby,’ nodded the Viking, and he started pointing all over again. ‘Zoe, Tim, Sigurd, Hedeby.’

  ‘Master Tim Ellis!’ insisted Tim. ‘Will you stop pushing me, Zoe!’

  ‘You don't understand, do you, Tim? Sigurd keeps saying Hedeby, but it's not part of his name. I think it's where he comes from.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Zoe shook her head. Her face was pale and excited. ‘We learned about Hedeby at school. It was a famous Viking settlement in Denmark.’

  ‘But he is a Viking,’ said Tim. ‘So what's so special about that?’

  ‘Hedeby doesn't exist any more. It was a Viking town, hundreds of years ago. It's not there any more, but here's Sigurd, and he says he comes from Hedeby!’

  Tim groaned. ‘Well of course he does. A real Viking wouldn't come from anywhere else, would he? I told you he was a real Viking!’

  4

  Lunch – Viking Style

  Tim and Zoe's parents were reluctant to listen to their story of the real Viking in Room Twelve, let alone believe it. The children had to wait until all the breakfast things had been cleared away, and the washing-up done. Then Zoe dragged her parents up the two flights of stairs to Room Twelve, where Tim was busily trying on Sigurd's helmet.

  The Viking was very worried when Mr and Mrs Ellis appeared. He still thought he was due for execution. But Zoe reassured him by introducing everyone. Her father felt rather foolish saying, ‘Good morning, Sigurd,’ and shaking hands with a Viking. But Sigurd was proud of his own party piece: ‘Sigurd, Hedeby, Denmark.’

  Mrs Ellis shook her head. ‘He's just pretending. He must be English. He doesn't want us to know who he is so he can't be charged for all the damage he's caused.’

  Zoe had fetched some drawing paper and pencils. She sat down on the edge of the bed and sketched the whole Ellis family, writing their names underneath.

  ‘Hey, that's not me,’ Tim complained. ‘I'm not fat.’ Zoe ignored him, and all the time she drew, she told Sigurd what she was doing. ‘This is me, this is my dad, Mr Ellis…’ And so she went on. She drew the hotel and the sign. Sigurd pointed to it excitedly. Finally Zoe stopped and gave him the pencil.

  He stared at the thin piece of wood as if it was something magical. It was quite plain that he had never seen a pencil in his whole life. Zoe looked up at her parents. ‘See?’ she said.

  ‘He's kidding us,’ muttered her father.

  Siggy now began to make a few practice strokes with the pencil, then slowly and carefully he started to draw. The others crowded round the bed. A tense, fascinated silence descended on them. Siggy's story slowly took shape on the paper. He drew his house and the longships, including an ugly and fierce-looking warrior with a vast beard. (This was Ulric Blacktooth and it was a good thing that Ulric wasn't around to see it.) He drew the ships setting sail, the mist and how he'd fallen into the sea.

  ‘Now do you believe us?’ Zoe asked in a whisper, as Sigurd put down the pencil and looked at them all in turn.

  Mrs Ellis hesitated. ‘I really don't know, dear. I mean, you must admit, it doesn't s
eem all that possible.’

  Her husband grunted. ‘I'm fed up with this play-acting. This man is no more a Viking than I am. He's just some left-over drunk from a fancy dress party.’ He turned to Sigurd and felt his rough leather jacket. ‘I bet you he's got his driving licence on him somewhere – and all his credit cards. That will prove who he is.’

  Tim giggled. ‘Vikings don't have driving licences!’

  ‘He's not a Viking!’ shouted Mr Ellis, standing up. ‘I'm going to ring the police. He's bound to have been reported missing.’

  But nothing of the kind had happened. Two very polite policemen came to the hotel. They asked Sigurd several questions, which of course he didn't understand. They searched his clothes and found nothing but a few seashells and a small dead crab. They told Mr Ellis that, as far as the police were concerned, there was little they could do. Then they left.

  ‘Does this mean we can keep him, Daddy?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Zoe! We're not talking about some pet animal. Sigurd is a human being – I think. I suppose he'll have to stay here until we find out more about him.’

  ‘Another mouth to feed,’ Mrs Ellis complained.

  ‘Yes. Well, he'll just have to work for his living. He can help in the kitchen with the washing-up.’

  ‘I suppose he's probably hungry now,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘We'd better take him down for lunch. He can sit in the corner of the dining room.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Tim asked brightly. Sigurd frowned. ‘Oh, you know, Siggy. Food, nosh, lovely grub – din-dins.’ Tim's father rolled his eyes at the level of this intelligent conversation. Siggy still didn't understand, not until Zoe pretended she was eating. Then his eyes lit up and he banged his stomach with both fists. He made a sweeping circle with his hands, as if to show that he had an enor-mous appetite.

  ‘That's what I was afraid of,’ said Mrs Ellis, as they went downstairs.

  The Viking had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours, and he glared at the other guests in the dining room as if he would have liked to swallow them. The Ambrose family were so put off that they hid behind their menu cards, whilst their charming son, Roger, did a few experiments to see how long it took to empty the salt cellar into the water jug.