by Sam Hay
Fish-eye pie? I shook my head and trudged off to the cafe at the end of the street.
‘Three teas and a packet of smoky bacon crisps, please,’ I said.
The cafe was full of people, which felt quite reassuring – as though normal life still existed away from the madness of my day.
‘Do you want milk in the tea, love?’
The lady behind the counter was smiling and I felt my spirits lift. But it didn’t last, because all of a sudden I felt a giant poke in my back.
‘Hey, Lavender Rise! What do you think you’re doing?’
I gulped. I instantly knew it was him. (Though actually, he didn’t smell quite so bad this time, not compared to the pie shop.)
‘What do you want?’ I squeaked, looking around to see if everyone was staring. (Though, strangely, no one seemed in the slightest bit concerned to have a six-foot angel in the shop.)
‘Why aren’t you saving Thelma Potts?’ the hoodie-angel barked.
I turned around. He still hadn’t sorted out his brightness setting.
‘She doesn’t need saving,’ I snapped, shielding my eyes. ‘I was trying to tell you last night. She’s ten times stronger than me…’
The hoodie-angel rolled his eyes and folded his arms.
‘…And she has four big brothers, and no end of kitchen weaponry. If she’s got a problem, trust me, she can sort it out herself.’
The hoodie-angel scowled, but said nothing. So I tried again. ‘You see, I want to be a footballer not an angel. Honestly, I make a rubbish angel. I’m much better at kicking a ball than saving people.’ The hoodie’s scowl deepened. ‘But if you lot really want me to spend my time helping people,’ I gabbled, ‘then maybe I can find someone more deserving. Like some little old lady who needs her grass cutting…’
The hoodie-angel’s face turned red and he started counting. When he got to ten, he took a deep breath. ‘Look, pal, you’d better sharpen up your act or you’ll be in big trouble! Thelma Potts is in serious danger. And time is running out. Tomorrow you must stay close to her, or something very bad will happen. And if it does, you’ll be in serious trouble yourself. So stop supping tea and get out there and save her. Or else!’
When he said ‘or else’, it echoed like we were in a big dark cave, and I was sure I felt the ground shake.
‘That’ll be £2.50 please, love.’
‘What?’
The lady behind the counter was holding out a bag. ‘Three teas and a packet of smoky bacon crisps…’
When I turned back, the hoodie-angel had gone.
Chapter 7
I dropped some coins on the counter, grabbed the bag and dashed out of the shop.
I wanted to run away, find somewhere without hoodie-angels, plumbing problems, fish-eye pies or Thelma Potts.
And then I spotted it.
Across the road from the café. A shop I’d never noticed before, which wasn’t surprising, because it wasn’t really my sort of a place. Or yours, either. Trust me.
It was a pink shop with ‘Heaven Sent’ written in loopy writing. And a window display full of pink and silver nick-nacks. But, of course, that’s not what made me cross the road and walk straight in. It was the big pink sign in the window: ‘Understand your inner angel. Free readings – help and advice given’.
I know, I know. I wasn’t battling with an inner angel. Mine was definitely an outer angel, and it was currently hounding me night and day. But where else could I go? The local cop shop? Yeah, right! ‘Excuse me officer, there’s a six-foot angel bothering me…’ They’d lock me up in a nut house.
As I walked in, a dainty bell tinkled above my head and I was smothered in a cloud of sugary perfume, while my feet sank into a deep-pile, pink carpet. It felt a bit like visiting my auntie Ada’s house. (She’s the type of woman who puts fluffy-skirted dollies over her toilet rolls and has crocheted cushions on her sofa.)
I sighed. It felt strangely comforting.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
The voice belonged to a small, black-haired head that appeared from behind a big counter at the back of the shop.
‘Er… well,’ I stammered.
‘Looking for a present for your mum’s birthday?’ asked the head.
‘No!’ She clearly didn’t know my mum. For her last birthday she asked for new overalls: mud brown, with built-in tool belt and extra padding on the knees for especially hard plumbing jobs.
‘Your gran then?’ the head was obviously keen to nail a sale. ‘We’ve got some lovely potpourri? Or how about an angelic ornament?’
I glanced at a wall covered in horrendous ceramic angels and shuddered.
‘No angels!’ I said firmly.
The head looked a bit confused, as though I’d walked into a butcher’s shop and said I didn’t want to buy any meat.
‘Actually, I wanted to find out more about the, er… sign outside.’
The head peered at me. ‘You mean you want an angel reading?’ It looked shocked.
I didn’t know what an angel reading was, but it didn’t sound very appealing. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
Then the head disappeared below the counter, and a few seconds later reappeared under a hatch along with its body.
‘It’s not me that does the readings.’
Thank God for that. She was about my age, and dressed head to pointy toes in black leather. She looked like she would be much better equipped to give a full and frank guide to hell, rather than heaven.
‘It’s my aunt,’ she smiled. ‘But she’s in with someone right now.’ She nodded to a pink door at the back, and I noticed her green nose stud glittered when she moved.
‘Take a seat on the sofa and she’ll be right with you.’
I suddenly felt a bit silly, plus I still had the tea to deliver. I was about to turn tail and head back to the pie shop, when I suddenly got that weird feeling again, like someone nipping my ears. I looked around, in case the hoodie-angel had somehow snuck in from somewhere. But no…
Just then the pink door opened and two women appeared. I knew instantly which one was the aunt, because she actually looked like the angel that sat on our Christmas tree. Right down to the blonde, curly hair and gossamer skirt. She was shaking hands with the other woman, who seemed extremely delighted with her reading.
I turned to go, as quickly as I could without actually running, but she’d spotted me.
‘Hello, young man… yes… you.’ And then she was on me. ‘Wait a minute, please, you look troubled.’ Her voice was soft and welcoming.
And that’s all it took. Two minutes later, I collapsed on her pink, velvet sofa and poured out everything that had happened in my life so far. Seriously, I went right back to the beginning. I rambled on and on and on…
At some stage the lady had nodded to Goth girl and two mugs of delicious hot chocolate had appeared. (I’d completely forgotten about the takeaway tea that was getting colder by the minute.) And still I went on, spilling out all the stuff about not wanting to Dream the Dream, or be a plumber, how my parents had bought me an enormous tool bag for my birthday when I’d much rather have got a new football kit, how I was being stalked by a thuggy angel, about Thelma Potts and her fish-eye pies, and how I was supposed to stay close to her because something awful was going to happen tomorrow. Then, finally, quite suddenly, I just ran out of words, stopped, and sort of crumpled into a heap.
The angel lady took my hand. I know that probably sounds wet, but it was lovely. She had really soft hands – pink, of course. She placed one on my forehead and I suddenly felt soothed, as though I’d off-loaded all my burdens on to someone else’s pink, fluffy shoulders.
‘Have you got the feather?’ she asked softly.
I had, though I’d no idea why. For some reason I’d tucked it down my right sock before we’d left the house.
She held it lightly in her palm.
‘Well, it’s genuine,’ she said firmly. ‘See the golden shimmer…’
I could
n’t, to be honest. It looked just like a bog-standard bird feather to me.
But the angel lady was mesmerised. ‘I’m afraid this means you must do as your angel says. Though I must say, I’m appalled at his approach.’
‘What?’ I said, sitting bolt upright, my calm evaporating. ‘But I can’t really be an angel. And even if by some strange freakish thing I am, how am I supposed to save Thelma Potts, and from what? Honestly, if you knew her, you’d see what I mean. She doesn’t need protecting.’
‘Sometimes the biggest giants need help from the smallest snails,’ the angel lady said with a sigh.
I wasn’t altogether sure I liked being called a snail! But I was too polite to say anything.
‘I know it’s all a bit of a shock,’ she said softly. ‘But there are angels all around us and not all of them are visitors from heaven. Some are people, just like you and me. Really, it’s an honour to be chosen to become someone’s guardian angel.’
That didn’t make me feel better.
‘Maybe Thelma plans to murder her ex-boyfriend tomorrow?’ said Goth girl. ‘And your mission is to stop her. Sort of save her soul.’
I sighed. That was what I didn’t want to hear!
‘So you think she wants to poison him with fish-eye pies?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the girl sternly. ‘It sounds more like black magic to me. If you take a closer look at all that stuff that was blocking the pie-shop drain, you’ll probably find its newts’ feet, fish eyes and pig hair. They’re the basic ingredients you need for witchcraft. Personally, I think Thelma’s been using the pie-shop kitchen to brew up a potion…’
I couldn’t help but laugh. I sat there on the pink sofa, surrounded by angels and had a right good chortle. ‘My day just gets better and better,’ I grinned through gritted teeth. ‘Hocus-pocus pies! I’ve heard it all now.’
‘Perhaps not witchcraft,’ said the angel lady soothingly. ‘Perhaps the girl is just trying to make a charm to win back her lost love. But whatever it is,’ she added. ‘I think she’s in trouble, and for some reason you’re the only one who can help her.’
Chapter 8
I left soon afterwards. But not before Goth girl had tried to sell me a naff-looking pencil holder, and three packs of cherubic thank-you notes she said were on special offer.
‘My aunt needs the cash,’ she said grumpily. ‘She spends so much time helping people, she forgets to sell anything.’
Guiltily, I bought a pink pencil sharpener with a love heart on it and vowed to throw it away the minute I got out of the shop. I also left with two bits of advice from the angel lady. Firstly, and most importantly, she told me not to worry about wings. (How did she know I was worried? She was right of course: I was absolutely brown-pants panicking that I was about to sprout a huge pair of feathered appendages that I’d somehow have to hide at football practice.)
She also told me to listen to my inner angel. That bit of advice didn’t sound useful at all. Because so far my inner angel was telling me I should go home and hide under my bed for three weeks. But I thanked her anyway, and promised to give her an update soon.
By the time I got back to the pie shop, Dad and Grant had finished and were now sitting scoffing pies in the slightly less smelly pie-shop kitchen.
‘At last!’ said Dad, dribbling pie fat down his chin.
‘I er… bumped into a friend,’ I said lamely, offering them cups of stone-cold tea.
Dad smiled. ‘Ah, don’t fret, son, I know what we found today wasn’t pleasant. Sometimes plumbing can be tough, but the rewards are immense. You should go and run some water down that sink now – it’s like a babbling brook!’
I declined the offer. I also turned down the pie that Grant offered me. I just couldn’t forget the fish eyes.
‘Grant’s been telling me about this pie-eating competition tomorrow,’ said Dad, cramming another overloaded forkful into his mouth. ‘It’s fascinating.’ He chewed for several minutes before wiping the grease off his chin. ‘Apparently the world record for beef-and-potato, deep-fried pie scoffing stands at 15 pies in ten minutes.’
I gaped. Fifteen pies in ten minutes? Impossible! (Almost as impossible as Grant’s love for Thelma.)
‘That record was actually set back in the 1950s,’ said Grant. ‘And it’s never been broken.’
‘That’s a lot of pies,’ I said.
Grant nodded. ‘The record was set by a local man: Stan Spooner – he was known as Mr Pie. He was actually a pie chef here, back when Thelma’s Grandpa ran the business….’
I suddenly got that weird feeling again. Like someone was nipping my ears to make sure I was listening. I frowned. It was actually quite annoying.
Grant shook his head sadly. ‘A bit of a sad business really. Stan Spooner died the night he set the record.’
‘Died?’ I breathed. The nipping sensation was getting worse.
‘Yes, he somehow managed to swallow all 15 pies, but then he pushed his luck and decided to try for number 16.’ Grant sighed. ‘It was his undoing. The 16th pie got wedged in his throat and he choked to death.’
‘What!’ I gasped. ‘He died here?’
Grant shrugged his shoulders. ‘Competitive eating’s a dangerous sport. Not for the faint-hearted. Would you like to see a picture of him?’
Grant beckoned me into the pie shop and there, high above the counter, was a small black-and-white photograph of a cheerful, red-faced bloke holding an enormous pie.
‘That’s him,’ said Grant. ‘It was taken just before the competition.’
‘What a dreadful way to go,’ I whispered. ‘Choking on a pie.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t so bad. Sort of suited him,’ said Grant. ‘Pies were his life. He always wanted to be famous as a great pie eater, and dying the way he did, well he sort of got his wish. You know he even left his body to medical science. It was in his will. He liked the idea of doctors trying to work out how he could eat so many pies.’
Just then Dad appeared. ‘OK, Grant, we’ll be off now,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Potts I’ll let him have my invoice in a day or two.’
I was still too stunned to speak, but my head was swimming with images: Thelma and her pie slice; Charlie Pittam, the love-rat sausage swallower; Stan Spooner choking on pies…
‘Hey – I’ve just had a thought,’ beamed Grant. ‘Why don’t you both come along to the competition tomorrow? You can drop off your bill then, too.’
Dad grinned.
‘No!’ I tried to shout, but somehow the word wouldn’t come out, and I felt the nipping sensation again.
‘It’ll be a great night. Piles of pies, lots of excitement,’ said Grant. ‘And I’ve got a bit of a surprise in store myself.’
Dad beamed. ‘We’d be delighted.’
I tried to shout again. ‘NO! NO MORE PIES!’
But still nothing came out. And I suddenly had a scary thought: was this my inner angel messing with my mind?
In the car on the way back home, I tried to piece it all altogether. According to the hoodie-angel, something awful was going to happen to Thelma tomorrow. And no matter how much I disliked her (and, more to the point, was terrified of her), I’d been charged with protecting her. Tomorrow was also the night of the pie-eating competition, where her ex-boyfriend would be competing. I knew it was a dangerous sport. People died scoffing pies. People like poor Stan Spooner – the record-breaking pie eater.
Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. Thelma was obviously going to knobble one of Charlie’s pies during the competition. All she needed to do was stick something lumpy in there and hope he’d choke! Fish eyes, newts’ feet, a lump of pig hair… they’d all do the trick: no wonder she’d been ‘working on some new recipes’. Goth girl had got it wrong. This wasn’t anything to do with hocus-pocus high jinks. This was plain and simple murder. And my mission was obviously to somehow stop Thelma from going through with it. But there was one small detail I couldn’t quite work out – how was I, William Box, reluctant plumber, and small,
skinny eleven-year-old boy, going to stop Thelma from doing anything?
Chapter 9
‘Billy!’ bawled Mum. ‘It’s for you.’
It was the next morning and I was still in my pyjamas when the doorbell rang.
‘Who is it?’ I yelled. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Barry was still on holiday (lucky devil) and all my other friends are never out of bed before twelve.
There was a pause, and then. ‘It’s Gaby… from the shop!’
Gaby from the shop? What shop? Gaby who? Reluctantly, I decided I’d better find out.
‘Hello, Billy, you left your feather behind.’
It was Goth girl.
‘Oh, right,’ I muttered. I could see Mum hovering in the kitchen with a smile on her face. My heart sank. She obviously thought that this was my girlfriend. ‘Well, thanks for dropping it off. Be seeing you…’
I tried to shut the door, but her small, black leather boot was blocking the way.
‘So, Billy,’ she said cheerfully, ‘have you worked out how you’re going to stop Thelma from slicing up that sausage swallower?’
‘Ssh!’ I said. ‘Keep it down.’ I could see Mum craning her neck from the kitchen, with that same soppy look on her chops. Actually I had finally worked out a plan. ‘It’s simple,’ I said confidently. ‘I’m going to go back to the pie shop and tell Thelma I’m there to do a follow-up examination of the plumbing system. That way I’ll be able to keep my eye on her and find out what she’s really up to.’
‘Well, that’s rubbish,’ said Gaby. ‘For a start, Thelma’s not working today. I’ve just been to the shop, looking for you. Grant the pie chef gave me your dad’s card. That’s how I got here.’
‘Great! Well, thanks again for the feather. Be seeing you.’
I tried to shut the door again, but still she wouldn’t move her boot.