by Sam Hay
‘But you didn’t tell me that,’ I squeaked.
‘You should always read the small print,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, are you going to get in that shed and sort out Thelma Potts, or do I need to get heavy?’
I didn’t really have much choice. I was caught between the wrath of Heaven and a zombie-making pie slasher. What would you have done?
I gathered up my tool bag and legged it to the other side of the garden, where Gaby was still hiding behind the compost heap totally oblivious to the menacing I’d just received from the feathered freak.
And that’s when Thelma spotted me.
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’
I had almost reached the compost heap when she appeared at the shed door with a bucket and shovel in her hands.
I froze.
She looked like she was about to dig my grave.
‘YOU’RE TRESPASSING!’ she yelled, and then suddenly she realised who I was. ‘YOU!’ she gasped. ‘IT’S YOU AGAIN!’
And then she flew at me, swinging the shovel wildly around her head. She looked like a runaway helicopter with lethal chopper blades and a mad pilot. I shut my eyes and prepared for the end.
‘Don’t touch him!’ yelled Gaby, emerging from behind the compost heap. ‘He can’t help it if he’s madly in love with you.’
‘What?’ Even in my state of abject terror, I still couldn’t miss what she’d said.
‘What?’ Even Thelma was shocked. ‘And who are you, anyway?’
‘Gaby,’ said Gaby. ‘A friend of Billy’s.’ (What a liar!) ‘He’s too shy to tell you himself, so he asked me to come along and speak for him. Look, he’s even bought you a present.’
Gaby fished inside my coat pocket and pulled out the love-heart pencil sharpener she’d made me buy from her aunt’s shop. (She’d obviously seen me stash it away before I left the shop. I could have kicked myself for keeping it.)
I tried to explain, but my mouth wouldn’t work.
Thelma’s eyes narrowed, as though she suspected a setup. ‘But he’s just a kid,’ she growled.
‘He may be a kid, but he’d do anything for you,’ said Gaby. ‘Truly, anything.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. Gradually I seemed to be regaining the power of speech – like a frozen leg of lamb that’s started to thaw – but my tongue still didn’t seem to fit in my mouth properly. I tried to deny all Gaby’s rubbish, but my words just sort of came out in a slur.
‘See?’ said Gaby. ‘That’s the effect you have on him.’
Thelma put down her shovel, and suddenly clocked my tool bag.
‘Have you got any screwdrivers in there?’
I nodded dumbly. I had 28 screwdrivers – enough screwdrivers to fit any head, anywhere.
This news seemed to soften her slightly.
‘Well, I need to borrow one. But neither of you can breathe a word of this. If you do, I’ll flatten you!’
And with that, we entered Thelma’s world.
Chapter 13
Thelma closed the door and – my heart sank – locked it.
‘Now, listen,’ she growled, standing in front of the door with her arms folded. ‘I’m involved in a bit of an… um… experiment. It’s a science project for school.’
I was happy to play along with the ‘science project’ story, but Gaby wasn’t.
She immediately pointed at a big book propped up on the table. ‘If I’m not very much mistaken, that’s Macaverty and Lawson – a first edition, and I believe you’re about to do some practical magic.’
I could have kicked her. As approaches go, that was even less subtle than my hoodie-angel’s.
‘What?’ Thelma gasped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Gaby smiled, a smug smile…
‘Don’t worry, we won’t tell, I’m a bit of a dabbler myself, if I’m honest.’
I knew it! I knew it! All that black eyeliner. And those silly, pointy boots. She probably has a broom down her back and a black cat in her handbag. Witches, I hate ’em!
Thelma was flummoxed, which was actually quite satisfying to see.
‘If you want, I can help you,’ said Gaby. ‘I suspect you were on your way out to the compost heap to find worms.’
Thelma nodded uncertainly.
‘Well, how about I get the worms while Billy here wires up the skeleton – because I’m guessing that’s what you had in mind for his screwdrivers.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Thelma. ‘It needs to be put back together – it’s in a bit of a mess…’
I gulped. I was pretty sure this wasn’t what the hoodie-angel had in mind when he’d told me I had to help Thelma.
‘Only a couple of other things we need,’ said Gaby cheerfully. ‘Have you got the base stock?’
The what?
Gaby glanced at me and saw the bewilderment on my face. ‘Every spell needs a base. For this one, I think I’m right in saying that you squish 600 fish eyes through a strainer, then simmer the liquid with newts’ feet, and finally wrap it all up in pigs’ hair, and roast for three hours.
Thelma’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, she reached into a basket on the table and took out a plastic tub.
Gaby smiled. ‘Good. The only other thing you need for a zombie spell is a tempter.’
‘A what?’ Again I was lost.
‘Something to tempt the dead back to life.’
Thelma rummaged in the basket again, and produced a huge pie.
‘Perfect.’ said Gabby. ‘I’m sure our zombie won’t be able to resist.’
It was completely bonkers. But suddenly we were all very busy.
Thelma upended the trolley and Stan Spooner tumbled to the floor. I picked up his skull. Strangely, I didn’t feel funny. It was like I was part of a play, and I was just acting the role of wizardy odd-job man.
I had a good look at the screws that had been drilled into the bottom of the skull. ‘I think I have a screwdriver that’ll do the job,’ I muttered.
Of course I did. My tool bag could probably have done the job for me.
‘Well, make sure you wire him up properly,’ snapped Thelma, who was swiftly getting back to her old self. ‘I don’t want any mess ups.’
‘What exactly are you planning to do with Mr Spooner?’ asked Gaby, who’d returned with her bucket of worms.
‘How do you know who he is?’ said Thelma, all suspicious again.
‘My cousin is a medical student,’ said Gaby confidently. ‘And a few months ago, he gave me a tour of the anatomy library. I remember Mr Spooner’s distinctively large jaw bone.’
It was clearly a total fib. But Thelma bought it.
‘Also,’ went on Gaby, ‘when you produced that pie there, as the “tempter”, I knew I was right. A pie for Mr Pie,’ she giggled.
Gaby was the oddest girl I’d ever met. After a bit, she stopped giggling and cocked her head to one side. ‘But one thing I’m intrigued to know is how you managed to get into the anatomy library to steal Stan. As I remember, it’s usually locked up.’
Thelma smirked. ‘The hospital janitor is one of our best customers. You’d be amazed at how helpful people can be when you offer them free pies. I just told him I wanted to become a doctor, and he was happy to give me a spare set of keys to the library so I could swat up for the medical-school entrance exams.’
Thelma looked at us closely for a moment, and then seemed to make a decision.
‘I suppose I should tell you what I’m planning, but I meant what I said earlier; if either of you breathe a word, I’ll mince you!’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Gaby smiling.
‘Er… me, too,’ I muttered, as I scrabbled about in my tool bag (secretly wishing it would swallow me up).
Thelma sighed. ‘I need Stan Spooner to teach someone a lesson.’
Here we go, I thought. You need Stan Spooner to stick a pie cleaver into your exboyfriend’s head.
‘There’s a man I know called Charlie Pittam.’ Thelma’s lips
tightened and she puffed up her enormous chest. ‘He made a fool out of me. Told me he loved me, when all along he just wanted free pies so he could get in training for tonight’s pie-eating competition.’
Gaby nodded sympathetically, as though she’d had similar experiences.
‘Well, I decided that the only way to really get back at Charlie was to stop him from winning the competition.’
‘What?’ I looked up. ‘You mean you’re not planning to kill him?’
Thelma frowned, and then ignored me. ‘Charlie’s a dead cert to win tonight. He’s going to go for the pie record. Sixteen pies in ten minutes. And he’ll do it – I’ve seen him eat 17 in a practice session. But there’s one man who can match him.’ She pointed at the pile of bones.
‘But he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Dead men don’t win pie-eating competitions.’
‘They will tonight,’ snapped Thelma. ‘He has to!’
Just then there was a crack of thunder from outside, and suddenly the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the window pane.
‘How appropriate,’ I sighed.
Chapter 14
Wiring a skeleton is not easy. Have you ever tried? Honestly, it’s impossible. There are so many fiddly bits. But I was doing my best while Thelma and Gaby poured over their recipe book.
You know that old phrase about ‘too many cooks’, well, I was starting to see the point. There they were, both squabbling over everything: who should say what; who should hold the pie… I was quite glad to be left alone with Stan. Though I was becoming increasingly worried that I seemed to have too many screws left over. I decided they must just be spares.
‘Are you done yet?’ growled Thelma. (That was her being friendly.)
Seeing as Thelma wasn’t actually planning to kill her ex-boyfriend, I’d decided it was probably OK for me to help her make her zombie. ‘All ready,’ I said proudly.
‘He looks a bit odd,’ said Thelma.
‘Yeah, sort of not quite right,’ added Gaby.
I frowned. ‘Well, he has been dead for 60 odd years.’
I kicked the spare screws out of view.
‘Maybe he’ll look better in his clothes?’ said Gaby, hopefully.
Thelma had brought one of her dad’s old suits to dress him in.
Putting clothes on a skeleton is hard work, but once I’d dressed him, he did look much better.
‘OK – turn off the lights,’ said Gaby.
‘Why?’ I moaned. I hate the dark.
‘Because we need total darkness,’ thundered Thelma, who was only just audible over the actual thunder that was still sounding above.
I flicked the switch and shivered. The only light was from the cauldron that the girls had rigged up on the table. (It was actually just a camping stove and an old cooking pan.)
‘OK, I think we’re ready,’ said Gaby. ‘Bring Stan forward,’ she motioned to me.
Stan was propped up in an old deck chair. I pushed him closer to the table and watched as Thelma picked up one of his long, spindly arms and draped it in the cauldron. In went the pie and then there was silence. (Well, apart from the crazy storm raging outside, which I was beginning to think might be a sign from above that I was letting the side down!)
At last, they started. I’ve no idea what they said, but it sounded totally ridiculous. Complete hocus-pocus, wizardy bilge. I had to stick my fingers in my mouth to make sure I didn’t laugh. (And I was secretly scared of what Thelma might do to me if I spoilt her fun.) But as they went on, I stopped wanting to laugh and began to feel rather uncomfortable. There was something rather unsettling about their rhythm. And then suddenly a scary thought occurred to me – what if this mumbo jumbo really did work? What if we were actually about to bring someone back from the dead?
The room went cold and I heard a rattling noise. I suspected it might be my teeth, which were chattering with cold and fear. But it wasn’t.
Stan Spooner’s skeleton was shaking.
I bit my lip and prayed that the screws would hold. (As you might have guessed I’m not particularly skilled with a screwdriver – and I didn’t like to think what Thelma might do to me if Stan Spooner fell apart.)
The girls started chanting again. And the skeleton started shaking some more. And then the weirdest thing happened: flesh started to appear along his bones.
Honestly. It was truly ghastly. Bubbling blood and flesh pulsated along Stan’s bones. I didn’t want to look. But just like at the anatomy museum, I couldn’t stop myself.
The chanting got louder as the storm grew stronger outside. The window frames were rattling. And Stan was growing more and more human-looking. Hair sprouted on the top of his bony head. Eyes popped into his empty sockets. Then his jaw fell open and I noticed teeth were growing inside.
It was too much. I shut my eyes tight. Then, all of a sudden, there was an almighty crash of thunder, and a streak of lightening lit up the room. I peeked through my fingers, and there, sitting in the deck chair, was the complete Stan Spooner, competitive pie-eating champion. Though he didn’t look much like his picture.
‘Pies!’ he gurgled. ‘I want pies!’
Thelma was ecstatic. ‘We’ve done it!’ she squealed. ‘We’ve really done it!’
Gaby smiled smugly. ‘Of course we have.’
I was speechless.
Thelma put the pie in his hand. And he immediately stuffed it into his mouth. I watched as pie grease ran down his chin.
Thelma clapped her hands in delight.
‘He doesn’t say much,’ I muttered.
‘Well, he is a zombie,’ said Gaby sarcastically. ‘They’re not known for their powers of conversation.’
‘Enough talking,’ said Thelma sharply. ‘We’ve got to get him down to the pie shop – the competition starts in less than an hour.’
And that’s where the problems began. For some reason, Stan wasn’t very steady on his feet.
‘He’s probably forgotten how to use them,’ I said, desperately hoping no one would blame my wiring job.
But every time he tried to stand, his knees gave way and he collapsed again.
‘Pies,’ he gurgled. ‘Pies!’ It was all he could say.
‘Haul him up!’ boomed Thelma. ‘I won’t let a pair of lousy legs let me down.’
I draped one of his long, bony arms around my shoulders, and Gaby took the other side. I shivered. There’s something about touching a zombie. They don’t feel very nice. A bit cold and clammy, and slightly soggy, but I was too polite to say anything.
‘The wheelbarrow,’ said Thelma. ‘We’ll stick him in there and wheel him to the competition. There’s nothing in the rules that say a competitor can’t be carried in.’
And that’s what we did. We poured him into the wheelbarrow and set off for the shop.
It wasn’t easy. Not only did I have to take a turn at pushing Stan, I was also lugging my tool bag. But finally we made it.
We went in the back door, through the kitchen. I was wondering how we’d explain ourselves, but everything was in such chaos that no one noticed. A handful of bakers were running hither and thither, as though they didn’t quite know what they were supposed to be doing. There were pies everywhere, stacked up in big, metal serving plates. Stan’s eyes were out on stalks, and there was saliva running down his chops. ‘Where’s Grant?’ roared Thelma.
‘He hasn’t turned up,’ squeaked one of the bakers, obviously as terrified of Thelma as the rest of us.
‘Where’s my dad?’ she thundered.
‘In the shop – they’re introducing the competitors…’
‘Quick!’ Thelma bellowed to us. ‘Grab Stan’s arms, and let’s get him inside.’
‘Pies!’ growled Stan.
I shook my head. There was no way we were going to get away with this.
Chapter 15
The competitors were lined up at the front of the pie shop, like athletes on a racetrack. I’d expected them all to be enormous. But they weren’t.
‘Introducing Kelly “th
e Belly” Bradshaw from Florida, USA.’
There was a round of applause and a few cheers as a skinny woman with a shock of orange hair took a bow.
‘And next up we have Gary “the Growler” Gibbons from Adelaide, Australia.’
Another round of applause and a few whoops of delight, as a small man in a khaki boiler suit gave a wave and did a few star jumps.
‘And our very own local lad, Charlie “the Pit” Pittam!’
I craned my neck. It was the first time I’d seen the root of all my troubles. He wasn’t much to look at. A bit like a mobile-phone salesman: smooth. In fact his face was so smooth it was almost expressionless. (I wondered whether he had some sort of face iron that he used to get the creases out at night.) I noticed he got an extra big cheer from a moon-faced girl in the audience – no doubt she was the sausage heiress.
‘And introducing a new competitor, Stanley Smith…’
‘That’s us!’ growled Thelma. ‘Come on.’
There was a smattering of polite applause, and a few odd looks, as between us we managed to wrestle Stan into a chair. (I noticed Thelma had taken down Stan’s picture from above the counter.)
‘And, finally, a late entry, introducing Grant “the Champ” Watkins.’
Thelma did a double take. ‘What?!’
It was true. There, taking his seat amongst the other competitors, was Grant the pie chef.
‘What’s he doing?’ squealed Thelma.
Of course I knew, but I was too scared to say. Grant was obviously so besotted with Thelma that he’d decided to reclaim her honour and beat Charlie Pittam at his own game. I shook my head. Grant looked a less-likely competitive pie-eating candidate than I did.
Just then Charlie sauntered over.
‘Who’s your new friend, Thelma?’ he said nastily, looking straight at Stan. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
‘Pies!’ growled Stan.
Thelma blushed scarlet. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said with a wobbly voice. ‘I hope you’ll be a good loser tonight.’