Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire

by Andy Stanton

  ‘Let’s try the Ghost Train, Polly,’ grinned Alan Taylor. ‘There’s real ghosts in there!’

  ‘Yippee!’ cried Polly. ‘I wants to see a ghost ever so much!’

  ‘There be no such thing as ghosts!’ said Friday scornfully. ‘It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’ nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests and bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs!’

  Alan Taylor and Polly stood staring at him, their mouths wide open.

  ‘Um, Friday,’ said Polly eventually. ‘What you on about?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Friday shrugged, climbing on to the Ghost Train. ‘But it sounded good.’

  So after all that, Polly finally got to meet some ghosts and they were very friendly.

  One of them gave her some new shoes, and Friday made friends with a tiny phantom called Pickles and got its email address.*

  And after that, Polly went on the fastest rollercoaster in the world, so fast that you couldn’t even remember if you’d been on it or not, your only proof was that you could hardly walk afterwards and you were covered in your own sick.

  Meanwhile, Jonathan Ripples had eaten one burger too many and his stomach was groaning like a shipwreck.

  ‘I think I’d better lie down,’ he said unhappily.

  He staggered out of the food tent, lay down on the hillside and closed his eyes. No sooner had he done so than Martin Launderette ran up and stuck a sign by his head which said: Ride the Bouncy CASTLE!

  ‘Look!’ exclaimed a little kid excitedly. ‘A new ride!’ And within seconds there were tonnes of little kids jumping up and down on Jonathan Ripples, screaming and laughing as they played in the flab.

  Martin Launderette was hiding in a nearby bush.

  Ha, Ha, he wrote in his red notebook. My best trick yet – turning Ripples into a fairground attraction!

  But Martin Launderette’s trick was no way the worst thing that happened on Boaster’s Hill that night. There was much worse stuff about to happen, believe you me.

  *picklestheghost@notveryalive.com

  Chapter 4

  The Onions of Doom

  On the other side of the hill, two shadowy figures were creeping along with shenanigans on their minds and entrails in their mouths. Of course, it was Mr Gum and Caterpillar Joe, sorry, I mean Billy William the Third. Halfway up the hill they stopped and lay down like soldiers, but not the ones on your side – the other lot.

  Mr Gum scanned the party through some evil binoculars. ‘Shabba me whiskers,’ he grimaced. ‘People having fun – I can’t stands it! Hang on – there’s Taylor!’

  ‘Has he got that there biscuit tin wiv ’im?’ asked Billy William, licking his dirty lips and burping at the same time just to see if it was possible.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mr Gum, chuckling so hard an entrail shot out his nostril. ‘An’ soon it’ll be ours.’

  Back at the party Polly and Friday were climbing on to the Big Wheel.

  ‘Have fun, you two,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘I’m off to get a hot dog.’

  ‘Bring me one,’ Friday called cheerily after him as the chair rose up into the night sky. ‘And make sure it’s got millions of onions!’

  What a view greeted Friday and Polly when they reached the top of the wheel. All of Lamonic Bibber was spread out before them like a mighty pancake sprinkled with houses. To the west the mountains challenged the heavens with their height and to the east the sea challenged the heavens by being flat and wet and not really challenging the heavens after all.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ sighed Polly as they sat there at the top of the world, the carriage creaking softly to and fro in the breeze. She gazed down and saw the party far below. The people looked like ants and the ants looked like even smaller ants. And further down the hillside Polly could see tonnes of little kids jumping up and down on some sort of bouncy castle.

  I still wishes Jake was here though, she thought, shivering a little in the night air. Everything’s more fun when that fat old woofdog’s around.

  Meanwhile, Alan Taylor was yib-yabbin’ along after some dogs of a different kind. Hot dogs. As he went, the townsfolk bent down to pat his back and cheer him on his way.

  ‘It’s the best party in the last one hundred years!’ exclaimed Old Granny, the oldest woman in Lamonic Bibber. ‘Alan Taylor, you are the champ!’

  ‘You’re a treasure! It’s a pleasure to enjoy such leisure,’ rhymed Beany McLeany.

  ‘I admire you, Alan Taylor, for you are a noble and generous fellow,’ said a six-month-old baby. And her mother rejoiced for these were the first words her infant daughter had ever spoken.

  The praise rang in Alan Taylor’s ears and the lights of the fair danced in his vision and he felt as if he were in a magical dream where he would always be safe from harm.

  ‘Everyone’s my friend now,’ he said fiercely to himself. ‘No one will ever laugh at me again like they did at school.’

  At last he came to the hot dog stand which stood in the shadows on the very edge of the fairground. It was quieter here. The laughter and the music sounded far off in the distance and a cold wind had struck up, whistling softly through the trees as if to warn that shenanigans were afoot. But Alan Taylor suspected nothing.

  ‘Two hot dogs, please,’ he said. ‘With millions of onions.’

  ‘Onions, you says?’ remarked the hot dog man, his face half-hidden in the shadows. His words stretched out long and low, slippery as rattlesnakes. ‘I’ll gives you onions all right!’

  ‘OK, then,’ said Alan Taylor innocently.

  ‘Hop up here, me little ginger,’ said the hot dog man, beckoning with a long unwashed finger. ‘I likes to get a good look at me customers.’

  So Alan Taylor hopped up on to the hot dog stand, a tiny shining beacon of trust in the cold starry night.

  ‘Now, about those onions –’ he began.

  ‘Come closer, me little ginger,’ murmured the hot dog man. ‘Closer to the onions.’

  Alan Taylor took a step towards the big pile of onions which crackled and sizzled on the grill.

  ‘Another step, me little ginger,’ whispered the hot dog man. ‘Thaaat’s right . . . Now one step more . . .’

  And then, in a flash, someone jumped out from behind a leaf and grabbed the biscuit tin from Alan Taylor’s grasp.

  ‘Shenanigans!’ squealed the Biscuit Billionaire but it was too late. The hot dog man had scooped him up and stuffed him into a bun.

  ‘There you go!’ shrieked the hot dog man, piling on handful after handful of onions and slapping the whole mess down on the counter. ‘Have all the onions you want! No extra charge!’

  And with a terrible laugh, the two robbers turned and ran off down the hill as fast as their bad legs could run.

  ‘We done it!’ howled Billy William, tearing off his disguise. Because I know this will surprise you but . . .

  HE WAS THE HOT DOG MAN ALL ALONG!

  ‘An’ who’s ever gonna know it was us what done the robbin’s?’ chortled Mr Gum, brandishing the biscuit tin as he ran. ‘No one, that’s who!’

  But it wasn’t ‘no one, that’s who!’ It was ‘Friday and Polly, that’s who!’ From up on the Big Wheel, they had seen every horrible moment. And as soon as they were back down, they wasted no time in legging it over to the hot dog stand like the heroes they were. They made it just in time to see Jonathan Ripples reaching for a hot dog smothered in onions.

  He brought it to his flabulous lips.

  He opened his food-destroying mouth.

  He licked a bit of ketchup off the bun.

  ‘POWER JUMP!’ cried Polly, leaping headfirst at Jonathan Ripples’ stomach, and down he went, the hot dog flying from his grasp and landing in Friday’s hair. With a dizzy moan, Alan Taylor emerged from the bun, smothered in sauce and onions, slithered down Friday’s nose and landed on the grass in a sloppy heap. Jonathan Ripples took one look at what he�
��d almost eaten and fainted away like a right wibber.

  ‘Where’s my biscuit tin?’ spluttered Alan Taylor weakly. ‘All my money was in there! Now I’ve got nothing!’

  And even as he said these words, one of his servants pulled a switch and all the lights went out. The rides ground to a halt, the jugglers dropped their hoops and a clown turned into a businessman in a grey suit who never smiled and told lies all the time.

  For Alan Taylor was no longer the Biscuit Billionaire. He was just the Biscuit and the fun was over.

  Chapter 5

  The Robbers on the Run

  As midnight struck, the two robbers were racing away over the dark muddy fields in their hobnail boots, churning up great clods of earth in their wake and ruining the farmers’ crops. The biscuit tin gleamed in the thin moonlight as they threw it to and fro like a rugby ball. But it wasn’t rugby they were playing, it was the Game of Crime, and the score was:

  LAMONIC BIBBER ROBBERS: ONE BILLION HEROES UNITED: NIL

  Oh, what a terrible, terrible night! The robbers dashed and their teeth gnashed and the rain lashed and the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed and the puddles splashed and the pigs in the fields went oinkety-oink. Yes, the pigs went oinkety-oink.

  And as they raced along, Billy William started up with a song and Mr Gum joined in and if you’d been out on the fields that night the blood would have frozen in your veins to hear it. And even just reading it on this page you might feel a little bit chilly for it was the famous and utterly terrifying ‘Robbers’ Song’:

  THE ROBBERS’ SONG

  When the wind is high an’ the moon is low

  An’ the earth is full of dead men’s bones

  Here we come, creepin’ in darkness

  Creepin’, creepin’ along!

  When rats an’ foxes are prowlin’ around

  An’ the night closes in like a demon’s claw

  Here we come, into your house

  Creepin’, creepin’ along!

  CHORUS:

  Wiggle wiggle wiggle!

  A-wiggly woo

  Bing bong tiddle!

  And a yoo-hoo-hoo!

  Turn around

  And touch your toes

  Rob-rob-robbing tonight!

  When despair comes knockin’

  an’ there ain’t no hope

  An’ the ghosts of the past

  are rattlin’ their chains

  Here we come, with our hobnail boots

  Creepin’, creepin’ along!

  CHORUS:

  Ricky ticky tick

  A-Ricky ticky tack

  Jingle dingle pingle

  Well, fancy that!

  Bing bong tiddle

  And a yoo-hoo-hoo!

  We’re rob-rob-robbing tonight, YEAH!

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Gum when the song was done. The lightning lit up his face horribly, so you would have sworn he was the Devil himself. Or maybe the Devil’s equally bad brother, Jeffrey.

  ‘It’ll be light soon an’ everyone’ll spot us an’ catch us into prison,’ continued Mr Gum. ‘We gotta get off to France.’

  ‘Don’t worry ’bout that, me old billionaire,’ replied Billy William, getting out his mobile phone. ‘I’m calling Monsieur Bellybutton right now.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ smiled Mr Gum. ‘Bellybutton. The smelliest man alive.’

  Many miles away, a dirty, dirty hand picked up the phone and a horrible stench wafted into the Lamonic Bibber night, faint but unmistakeably disgusting. For you see, Monsieur Bellybutton was so niffy that you could actually smell him all the way down the line from Paris. After a muttered conversation in bad French, Billy put down the phone. Then he threw it at a horse for a laugh.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ he told Mr Gum. ‘We gotta wait down in Smuggler’s Cove for Bellybutton to row over from Paris. Then we jump in his boat an’ row back to France. Then we change our names, learn French an’ live like powerful kings.’

  ‘I’m gonna change me name to Monsieur le King de la Powerful de la Gum-Gum,’ said Mr Gum as they clomped off for Smuggler’s Cove.

  ‘An’ I’m gonna be Monsieur le King Fantastique de la Butcher de la Billy de la French Toast de la Powerful,’ said Billy William.

  ‘An’ I’m gonna buy the Eiffel Tower,’ laughed Mr Gum. ‘And then I’m gonna smash it to bits an’ put up a massive statue of a cockroach.’

  By now the sun was coming up, shining miserably through the grey clouds and casting a thin grey light over everything as if there was no joy left in the world and all the footballs had been punctured. Tendrils of mist swirled around the robbers’ legs as they came to a windswept cliff top. It was Hangman’s Leap and, lordy, it was a wretched place. The cliff face was steep and rocky, and some of the rocks looked a bit like the faces of murderers. Others looked like the faces of thieves or plumbers. Seagulls flew overhead but not nice ones like in paintings. Hangman’s Leap attracted only the most dismal seabirds, with one eye and scraggy old feathers and bits of string hanging off their manky legs.

  Huffing and puffing, the robbers began the long and treacherous climb down the cliff. It took ages, and Billy William slipped on an empty crisp packet and nearly went a-tumblin’ – but somehow they made it to the bottom. Picking their way over the sharp black rocks they were soon at Smuggler’s Cove and in they crept, like bad dreams into a postman’s head.

  It was cold and damp inside the cave. A crab wept with loneliness on the stony floor and a monstrous eel pushed its head out of a hole in the wall and went ‘UNNNNGGGH!’ An albatross squawked mournfully in the gloom and wolves and vultures sat on the – OK, there weren’t any wolves and vultures but it still wasn’t very nice. It was a cursed place was Smuggler’s Cove, miserable and lonesome and isolated from all civilisation. It was so isolated that there was only a black and white TV. Billy William turned it on.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Gum with satisfaction. ‘It’s “Legmash”.’

  ‘Legmash’ was Mr Gum’s new favourite programme. It showed people breaking their legs in real accidents so it was just his type of thing. Billy William started a fire by lighting his own farts and together the robbers settled down to await the arrival of Monsieur Bellybutton.

  It had been a long night and presently they began to doze off.

  ‘Just think,’ yawned Mr Gum. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be kinging it up in France an’ smashin’ things in!’

  ‘Yeah,’ yawned Billy William. ‘An’ throwin’ entrails all over Paris an’ . . .’

  ‘Billy,’ said Mr Gum sleepily, ‘make sure that lid’s put down tight on that tin, me old flip-flop. We don’t want none of that money escapin’.’

  ‘You do it,’ yawned Billy William. ‘I’m getting some kip.’

  The biscuit tin lay at the cave entrance, its lid half on and half off. After a while a banknote got caught up on the wind and went flying out from the cave, but the robbers didn’t notice. They were sound asleep, dreaming of mucking up France.

  Chapter 6

  Alan Taylor Stays in Bed

  The next morning Polly and Friday met in the town square under the historic statue of Some Old Bloke From Ages Ago On A Horse. With heavy hearts, they set off for Boaster’s Hill.

  ‘Oh, Friday,’ sighed Polly. ‘I does hopes Alan Taylor’s all right after last night’s shenanigans.’

  Soon after Polly said this, she and Friday came to the bottom of Boaster’s Hill and then a few minutes later they were halfway up and then a bit later after that they were at the top. And it was all thanks to the miracles of legs and walking up hills. As they approached the mansion, they saw the last of the servants making off with a valuable golden peanut. Yes, Alan Taylor’s own servants had taken everything and now the mansion was just a great big empty pile of house looking out over the town like a giant’s air freshener.

  ‘Servants, you are the worst!’ shouted Polly down the hill, her face red with fury and her elbows turquoise with annoyance. ‘You oughts to be ashamed, you naughtys! Why, I gots
half a mind to write to the Houses of Peppermint an’ tell the Prime Minter what’s a-goin’ on!’

  Friday let her rant and rage for he had once been a young girl himself and he knew what it was like to care about the world with such passions. Eventually Polly was all ranted out and she collapsed in a shrubbery.

  ‘Come hither, little miss,’ said Friday sympathetically, helping her out from a geranium. ‘For it is now more than ever that Alan Taylor needs us, his true friends. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’

  So into the mansion they went to find the unlucky biscuit. The rooms were bare and lonely, the floorboards dusty and creaky beneath the heroes’ heels. The wind whistled through the open windows and the majestic kitchen had been completely overrun by a woodlouse. Polly and Friday moved through the rooms calling Alan Taylor’s name but there was no answer.

  ‘We checked everywhere,’ said Polly worriedly. ‘Where IS he?’

  Just then they heard a tiny sobbing sound coming from upstairs.

  With their heroic ears, they followed the sound to an enormous four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

  Friday threw back the white satin covers and there lay Alan Taylor, the very picture of despair. He had been crying so hard that his face had gone soggy.