So Pete turned to his faithful basset, to see if it would work for him, too.
‘Blob, Blob, Blob…’ he whispered, before his dad got to them.
And his bestest-ever friend, thinking Pete was calling him, pushed his way into the tent.
Well, there wasn’t much room in there for a boy and a werewolf three times the length of a normal basset, but luckily Blob’s monsterosity slipped off him just as he came through the flap.
He was back to being a basset at last! A proper cuddly, droopy-eared basset!
Blob licked Pete, as Dad’s face filled the doorway.
‘Did you have a good night, you two?’
Pete nodded. ‘Yeah, great,’ he said.
‘Not too warm for you?’
‘I kept the flap open,’ said Pete.
‘No madcap adventures out and about on your own without a sensible adult?’ said Dad.
Well, Pete just smiled. And Blob just wagged his tail.
The Night of the Bwca
It was Friday night. Pete was tossing and turning, trying to get to sleep, when he heard a knock, knock, knocking from somewhere in the distance. He got up and went to the window. It sounded like it was coming from the shed at the bottom of the garden.
Sometimes his dad messed about with things out there – fixing punctures, trying to get old radios to work, that sort of thing – but never in the middle of the night.
So Pete, glad of an excuse to be up and about, especially on a bright moonlit night, threw on his night-time wanderer gear, grabbed his super-dooper beam-blaster torch and tippy-toed down the stairs.
‘Yes, you can come too,’ he whispered to his favourite-ever basset. Because there was Blob, beating his tail on the mat, waggity-wag.
‘Knockity, knock,’ went the noise, getting ever louder as they headed down the garden. ‘Knock, knockity, knock.’
As Pete shone his beam-blaster through the window of the shed, there was a little squeal, the knocking stopped, and something slid out of view.
Pete ran inside, flashing his light into every nook and cranny. But whoever or whatever it was, they’d somehow disappeared.
And then he gasped – for there, on his dad’s workbench, was a tiny little miner’s lamp! Next to it there was a tiny little hammer. And next to that, there was a funny old clock, tick tocking.
‘Weird,’ said Pete, picking each one up and putting them down again. ‘Super weird.’
Pete put the gas out in the lamp, in case it set the shed on fire. Then he left the lamp and the hammer on the table (they just might have been his dad’s, he thought – though he was sure he’d never seen them before), and brought the clock back into the house.
It was an old-fashioned alarm clock, the type with metal dongers on the top. The really loud type.
In the kitchen, he set the alarm for seven o’clock, tiptoed into his dad’s room and put it by his bed. Just for a laugh.
Then he went back to his room and fell asleep.
‘RINGITY RING,
RINGITY RING!’
It was morning, and the super-loud alarm was crashing through the silence.
‘RINGITY
RINNNGGGGGGG!’
‘Aarrggh!’ yelled Pete’s dad. ‘What’s all that racket? Where’s the fire?’
And then he saw where it was coming from. Pete heard him fumbling to turn it off.
‘How did that old thing get here?’ he was grumbling. ‘And how come it’s working? I’ve had it in my shed, meaning to mend it, for YEARS!’
But Pete didn’t say a word about it, then or later. And neither did Blob.
The next night, lying in bed, Pete heard the little tap tap tapping noise again. ‘Knockity, knock. Knock, knock.’
He grabbed his night-time gear, fetched his ever-faithful basset, and they tippy-toed down to the shed.
But this time Pete had the good sense to leave his torch behind. Whoever it was and whatever they were up to, he wanted to catch them in the act.
‘Knockity, knock. Knock, knock,’ he heard.
Pete threw the door open…
But he was too late again, for just as he did so, something (or someone) squealed, slipped to the floor and disappeared.
Pete picked up the little lamp from the workbench (it was lit again) and had a really good look round.
There was no sign of anyone, but on closer inspection he noticed that one of the wooden floorboards was slightly wobbly.
Pete gave it a bit of a tug and the board shifted slightly. He held the lamp to the gap and saw a hole, going deep down into the ground.
Blob went over to it, had a good sniff and whined.
‘Is there someone down there, do you think?’ said Pete. ‘Is that where the knockity-knocker went?’
Blob beat his tail on the floor. Waggity-wag. Woof woof.
‘Weird,’ said Pete. ‘Very weird.’
So the NEXT night, which was Sunday night, he and Blob hid inside the shed.
First Pete went to his own bed, so his dad wouldn’t get suspicious, but as soon as his dad went into his room, Pete slipped outside, taking Blob with him.
They were in there for ages, getting more and more uncomfortable, and more and more cold, and Pete was just about to give up and go back to bed – because it was school in the morning and he knew he’d better get to sleep, especially after the last two unsettled nights, or he’d find himself dozing in class and then he’d be in real trouble, when…
‘A light!’ whispered Pete. He’d slid the loose floorboard slightly open when they’d gone into the shed, and then kept his eyes fixed on the gap the whole time they’d been in there.
The tiny light, coming from the hole, got brighter and brighter, until someone or something slid it and the next couple of boards across, and out popped…
A little man! No more than two feet tall. With a dirty-looking face, a big hairy beard, pointy ears, and another little miner’s lamp in his hands.
‘Blimey!’ muttered Pete, under his breath.
But he and Blob were as silent as mice, as up the little guy clambered, through the gap in the floorboards. Knockity, knock, tapping them back into place once he was through. Then up, onto a chair. Up again, onto the workbench … where he picked up his little hammer, and…
‘Knockity, knock.’ He set to work. Doing whatever it was he was doing.
‘Hello there, little fellow!’ whispered Pete, and the hairy little man nearly jumped right out of his skin.
‘Who’s that?’ he peeped, in the squeakiest voice.
‘It’s me,’ said Pete, from in behind the bicycles. ‘Over here, in the corner, with my long, low dog.’
And the tiny fellow knew it was too late to run.
‘But who are YOU?’ asked Pete, when he and Blob had come out of hiding.
‘I’m a bwca,’ said the little man, eyeing them both suspiciously. Especially Blob.
‘A booka?’ said Pete. ‘Like a book, with an “a” on the end?’
‘No, a Welsh sort of a bwca,’ said the man. ‘With a “w” and a “c”.’
‘Oh, a BWCA!’ said Pete. And then he frowned. ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’
‘It’s me,’ said the tiny man. ‘Me and my people. We’re little miners, and we’re called bwca because it’s a bit like the sound of all the knocking we do.’
‘Knocka, knocka – bwca, bwca?’ said Pete.
‘That’s it,’ said the man, bashing a bit of metal with his tiny hammer.
‘So you’re little miners?’ said Pete.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s bwcas all over Wales – well, all under Wales, I suppose,’ he said, with a giggle. ‘But my lot have been here, in the Llani area, since the days of the lead mines.’
‘Fair play. So have you always lived underground?’ Pete asked him.
‘Ah no,’ said the little fellow. ‘We used to share Up Top with your crowd, back in the olden days. But it’s a bit dodgy now for little fellows like us, what with all those horrible speedy car-things. And big dogs…
’ he said, giving Blob a dirty look.
But Blob just smiled. Waggity-wag.
‘So what are you doing here, in Dad’s shed?’ Pete asked him.
‘Oh, we come up to the surface in the night, when it’s quiet, sometimes. And, if we’re feeling particularly helpful, we might do a few good deeds. But only for good people,’ said the little bwca man.
‘Like mending alarm clocks for my dad?’
‘Yes, like mending alarm clocks.’
‘And do you only do good deeds?’ asked Pete.
‘Oh no,’ said the bwca, with a sly little smile. ‘When there’s a full moon, we’re allowed to get up to all sorts of mischief!’
‘Like what?’ said Pete, who was partial to a bit of night-time mischief himself, as you very well know.
‘Would you like to see?’ asked the little bwca man.
‘Yes, please.’
‘OK. Come back tomorrow night. It’ll be full moon then. Maybe you and me can have a bit of fun.’
Blob tapped his tail on the floorboards. ‘And you, hound,’ said the bwca, giving him a little sideways look. ‘If you promise to be good.’
So the next night, Pete sat up in bed, reading. He was waiting for the telltale sound of the little bwca man.
Next thing he was fast asleep. He’d had too many late nights in a row.
But soon after that, there was a scratching at his door. And a whining.
‘What’s up, Blob?’ he muttered.
And then Pete heard it. ‘Knockity, knock,’ from down the garden.
‘Clever Blob,’ whispered Pete. ‘Let’s go and find our little friend.’
‘Hello, Mr Bwca,’ he said, easing open the door of the shed. ‘Howya keeping?’
‘Shw mae, Pete. Shw mae, Blob,’ said the miniature man, tapping away by the light of his lamp.
‘But I thought you were going to be doing naughty things tonight,’ said Pete. ‘It’s a full moon, remember?’
‘Oh, I am,’ said the Bwca, with a cheeky smile. ‘I’ve just been waiting for you two. Let’s go.’
‘Where are we off to?’ asked Pete, setting off down the road.
The little man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who has to decide.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Pete.
‘Well, remember I said we bwcas do good deeds for good people?’ he said.
‘Like my dad and the alarm clock?’ said Pete.
‘Exactly. Well, we do naughty things, too, like I told you, but only to nasty people. So who do you know that’s nasty?’
Pete looked at Blob and Blob looked at Pete.
‘Come on…’ said the bwca. ‘There’s got to be at least one, even in a friendly little town like Llani.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Pete. ‘Well, there’s Billy Beggs…’
And Blob growled at the very name.
‘Who’s Billy Beggs,’ asked the bwca.
‘He’s the school bully,’ Pete told him.
‘Perfect,’ said the tiny man, with a sly little grin.
‘But I don’t want to actually hurt him,’ said Pete, frowning. ‘I mean HE’s the bully, not me…’
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ said the little bwca-man. ‘We’ll just give him something to think about.’
And off they went, down Westgate, up Eastgate, and all the way to Billy Beggs’ house.
When they got to the bully’s back gate, the bwca got his miniature hammer out.
‘Knockity knock,’ he went on the lock, and it fell to the ground with a clatter.
‘Shhh!’ said Pete, as they tippy-toed into Billy Beggs’ yard. ‘If he sees us, we’re done for! Or I am, anyway!’
But then…
‘My bike!’ gasped Pete, seeing it slap-bang in front of him, leaning against the wall. ‘He’s only gone and nicked my lovely bike!’
And Pete hadn’t even noticed it was missing from his shed. But it had to be. Because no one else had one like it. It was the only Chopper in town.
Pete grabbed it – it was his pride and joy – but it was fixed to a drainpipe with a super-strong lock.
‘Have no fear,’ whispered his newest little friend. ‘There’s a bwca here.’
And pulling out his hammer, he tappity-tapped, and the lock clattered to the floor.
‘YOU’RE A BIG BULLY, BILLY BEGGS!’ yelled Pete, at the top of his voice.
And off they ran (and cycled), top speed.
‘Who’s next?’ asked the bwca, back in Pete’s dad’s shed.
‘What, you want another nasty person?’ said Pete. ‘Well … um … there’s always Mrs Walters, round the corner… She’s not exactly nasty, but…’
And Blob gave a happy little whine, at the thought of his arch-enemy getting her come-uppance.
‘What’s so bad about her?’ said the bwca.
‘Oh, she’s just chopsy, isn’t she, Blob? Always complaining about you yapping, though you only ever do it when you’re happy…’
‘Woof, woof,’ said Blob, with a little doggy smile.
‘And the worst thing is, she never gives us our balls back,’ said Pete.
‘Fair play,’ said the bwca. ‘Let’s go and give her a little visit.’
‘Tappity tap,’ went the hammer, on the lock of Mrs Walters’ shed.
Then, once he’d got it open, the bwca shone his lamp around. And there, in a giant net in the corner of the shed, was an enormous pile of balls.
‘Wow!’ said Pete. ‘I knew she’d had a lot, but I never thought there’d be this many!’
And he started passing them out, one by one, counting them as he went…
‘Thirteen, fourteen … fifteen footballs!’
And not only that – there were eight rugby balls, six Blob balls, four tennis balls, two cricket balls and a frisbee!
And Blob, who LOVED balls, and HATED anyone who stole them from him, had to grab every single one and give it a good shake. He was in basset heaven!
(Mrs Walters’ house backed onto Pete’s by the way, which is why so much stuff ended up in her garden. So all they had to do was kick, throw or frisbee them all back over. Easy enough, even in the dark.)
‘That’s that done, then!’ said Pete, when they’d finished. But then he heard a ‘Knock, knock, tinkle,’ from behind him.
‘That’ll stop you telling tales, you silly grinner!’ said the bwca. And Pete turned round, to see him bashing Mrs Walters’ garden gnome.
‘Oh, I do love bringing a bit of badness on someone…’ muttered the bwca, with a happy little giggle. ‘As long as they deserve it, of course!’
‘OK,’ said Pete, when they were back once more in the safety of the shed. ‘I think that’s quite enough badness for one night.’
‘You’re right,’ said the bwca. ‘I’m off back down to my little underground home. I’ll see you two again sometime, maybe. And don’t forget…’ he said, just before he slipped down between the floorboards, taking with him his lamps and his hammers and any sign that he’d been there. ‘We may be small, us bwcas, but we know how to look after ourselves. So if you ever hear anyone laughing at us, let me know!’
‘What would you do?’ asked Pete.
‘I’d wait till it was dark,’ said the little bwca man. ‘And then I’d be up there to tap nails through the soles of their shoes, so that when they put them on in the morning, they’d stab holes in every single one of their little tootsies!’
‘Oh,’ said Pete.
‘And if they were doing nasties to other people as well as mocking us bwcas, I’d lead them up a narrow path to the edge of a cliff in the middle of the night, then blow out the lamp and leave them there…’
‘Well, we’d never say a bad word against you, would we, Blob?’ said Pete. ‘We won’t let anyone else do it, either.’
And Blob said nothing, because bassets can’t talk.
But he beat his tail on the floorboards, to show how much he agreed. Waggity-wag. Woof woof.
‘And if they were extra
-specially nasty, as well as trying to make fun of us,’ said the little bwca man, ‘then I’d grab them by the nose and banish them and their family to the banks of the Red Sea for fourteen generations!’
‘Wow!’ said Pete. ‘You don’t mess with the bwca!’
‘Quite right,’ said the little miner. ‘Because when you’re good, we’re very very good in return. But when you’re bad…’ he said, his eyes darting from Pete to Blob and back again, ‘we’re HORRID!’
And with that and a giggle, he was gone.
‘Phew!’ said Pete. ‘Is it just me, Blob, or is that little fellow a bit scary? I mean, it just goes to show, you don’t have to be big to be bad!’
And Blob? Well, Blob agreed.
The Night of the Hell Hounds
‘Aw-rooooo!’
Blob woke. What was that noise? It was coming from somewhere outside.
‘Aw-rooooo!’
There it was again. He perked up his ears. Then he plodded over to the cat flap, where he could hear better.
‘Aw-roooooo!’
The hair stood up on the back of Blob’s back. He pushed his head through the flap and stared out into the darkness.
And saw two hundred eyes, glittering back at him!
‘Aw-rooooooo!’
Horrid-looking doggy eyes! Scary-sounding hounds! And whoever it was, they were calling him! Calling him to join them!
Blob tugged his head back inside, double quick. There’s no way he was joining up with a gang of green-eyed night hounds. He was in a team already. Him and Pete. And he didn’t like the look of that lot. Not one little bit.
He turned his back on the cat flap, clattered down the hall, up the stairs, and scratchity-scratched on Pete’s door.
‘What’s the matter, pup?’ Pete had been fast asleep for once, happily dreaming of monsters.
But at the sound of a distressed Blob, he hopped out of bed and ran to open the door.
Blob raced across the room, clambered up onto the bed, tugged the duvet over his head, and lay there, shaking.
‘What’s up?’ said Pete, pulling back the cover and staring at the long, low shivery dog. ‘It’s not like you to be such a scaredy-basset! Have you been dreaming the same dream as me, by any chance? Nightmares – I love them!’
Pete and the Five-A-Side Vampires Page 3