The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy

by John Lawrence

  ‘I said, come and get her,’ said Sampson, backing out of the gym. ‘If you’re brave enough, that is!’

  That was it! Someone else was doubting Ricky’s bravery! This called for drastic action. He might not be very brave, but he could be somewhat brave where his family was concerned. Instantly, without heed for his own safety, he returned to the buffet table, picked up another Dairylea and Angel Delight Goujon, popped it into his mouth, chose another one, ate it, picked up a pink fondant fancy, ate it, took a swig of delicious blackcurrant and rhubarb cordial, licked his lips with his very own tongue, then carefully and urgently followed Amy’s quiet screams down the corridor. All the other people looked on, encouragingly nibbling their nibbles and wondering if this was all part of the play. Some people even started to clap and shout he’s behind you!

  George stood watching Ricky, wondering if his own role was now over and if he’d actually done enough to attract the attention of an agent or record company who, in a moment of madness, might sign up Bash! for a multi-million pound recording contract and, hopefully, the inevitable professional slavery.

  Out in the corridor, somewhat brave Ricky had unexpectedly come across an open door. It was the library! From within he could hear a commotion, very similar to those nineteenth century commotions but with a more modernistic and contemporary feel to them. Instinctively he knew that libraries don’t usually have commotions of any sort. There was something very wrong here (although deep down he knew that it was quite wrong to preface wrong with a qualifier, as he knew that something is either wrong or right, and strictly speaking there were no gradations of wrongness). Shaking his head at this unfortunate episode of invasive literary ineptitude, he carefully, yet somewhat bravely, stepped into the library. He followed the sound of the contemporary commotion. It came from the direction of Poetry and Literary Criticism! Somewhat bravely he peeked around the corner of the bookshelves, noting with interest that they had several new copies of York Advanced Notes on The Life and Works of Pam Ayres. Puzzled, yet strangely satisfied, he took a quick look up the aisle. Amy was sitting on the floor, tied up and leaning against The Romantics! Sampson was standing over her threateningly.

  Taking his hands into his life, Ricky suddenly leapt out and equally suddenly confronted Sampson. ‘Untie my pathetic sister!’ he yelled somewhat bravely. ‘And get her away from The Romantics and their hideous rhymes and their ill-informed Platonism! Or else!’

  Amy screamed as Sampson leapt towards Ricky, brandishing the cake slice with the breezy enthusiasm of Jamie Oliver on speed. ‘Oh yes? Oh yes? Or else what, Ricko?’ he sneered evilly. ‘You’re the one who helped to humiliate and disgrace me! Come here and join your precious sister. I’m going to kill you both! If you don’t mind. Ha ha! I’m really enjoying this!’

  Ricky was stunned. Kill? This was The Secret Five! No-one had ever killed anyone before, to his knowledge. People didn’t die! It had suddenly become a world that he no longer recognised, a far cry from his world where ordinary decent Britons could live without fear of dying, of homophobia, of paedophilia or toilet- breaks. Oh how he badly needed a chapter break to recover from the shock and give him time to think of a plan!

  Unfortunately, that was highly unlikely at this stage, and Ricky had only just over a line break to think of a plan, which was no time at all. Sampson lurched forward and grabbed him! Firmly yet tenderly he threw Ricky against the bookshelves, causing The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere In Seven Partes to fall from the top shelf and hit Ricky very hard on the head. Ricky collapsed onto the floor alongside Amy, who shrieked in a rather pathetic girly way.

  ‘But tell me, tell me, speak again,’ sneered Sampson as he trussed Ricky up like a trussed-up oven-ready chicken but, mercifully, without the stuffing. ‘You said or else. Or else what, Ricko? Eh?’

  But somewhat brave Ricky was unconscious! Although The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere In Seven Partes is usually quite a skinny book, the Introduction and Preface by Melvyn Bragg and Ken Dodd had expanded it from 35 to 850 pages, making it a tome capable of inflicting considerable damage on an unsuspecting head, not to mention the loss of the reader’s will to live.

  ‘Ricky!’ squealed Amy, struggling to free herself from her bonds in order to soothe her brother’s brow.

  ‘Quiet!’ Sampson sneered at Amy. ‘This is a hostage situation, so you need to start to develop the Patti Hearst Syndrome, and you can’t do that while squealing all the time. So shush and start developing, silly squeally girl.’ He rubbed his hands together evilly. ‘Now, I have to think of my evil demands. Ha!’

  He definitely needed time to think even more evilly. A chapter break would be very welcome, he thought. Very welcome indeed.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  In which Sampson acquires a fluffy white cat; a familiar character makes an appearance, maybe; some shocking truths are revealed but then quickly covered up again; the kangaroo makes an important keynote speech about tax credits.

  Ricky was particularly upset when he came to, partly because he was missing the splendid buffet, partly because when he’d suggested a chapter break none had been forthcoming, and partly because he found himself trussed up in the library alongside The Romantics and had woken with his cheek pressed against Percy Bysshe Shelley’s spine.

  ‘So, you’re awake, Ricko,’ sneered Sampson, who was standing over him. ‘I’ve become really evil while you’ve been unconscious. I’ve tickled your sister’s feet!’ He threw his head back and laughed quite an evil laugh for a boy with his size of ears and his taste in soft furnishing.

  ‘And he’s got himself a cat!’ squeaked Amy rather too squeakily.

  Ricky looked up and saw that Sampson was holding and stroking a beautiful Persian cat, which by now had had the benefit of many chapters to learn a few useful English phrases, should the adventure story ever sink so low as introducing a talking cat.

  ‘The fluffy white pussy makes me look quite evil, don’t you think?’ sneered Sampson, evilly stroking the cat, which looked very thoughtful and was probably conjugating English verbs quietly to itself. ‘And, while you’ve been unconscious, Ricko, I gave them all my ransom demands.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Ricky.

  ‘You may well say gosh,’ said Sampson. ‘My demands were truly evil! A one million pound ransom plus VAT and optional service charge, a nice shiny red helicopter to fly me out of here, with Debbie Harry as the pilot if at all possible, and a sharper cake slice.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Ricky again, but this time with feeling and an exclamation mark for effect.

  ‘But they refused him!’ squealed Amy triumphantly.

  ‘So they did, the fools,’ sneered Sampson sneeringly. ‘But I’m not an unreasonably evil person. So I settled for a W H Smith gift token and an Adult Daysaver bus ticket, which is tremendously good value as it gives unlimited travel for twenty-four hours excluding Night Services, which is very confusing don’t you think? But I still plan to kill you both, as I feel extremely evil at the moment and must take full advantage of it.’

  Just then, as they were beginning to fear the worst, Ricky and Amy heard a very familiar cackle. ‘Ha!’ the very familiar cackle cackled.

  ‘It’s Old Hag!’ Amy whispered to Ricky. ‘Do you think she’s come to rescue us?’

  But Sampson had overheard her with his very own small ears. ‘No chance!’ he sneered. He turned to Old Hag, who had entered the library and was looking around for someone she could show her library ticket to. Unfortunately for everyone she was still dressed in her schoolgirl’s outfit, her old hag’s bosom straining against the waistband of the short grey skirt. Her various veins, much to Ricky’s disgust, seemed to be developing nicely into a detailed road map of the environs of Worcester.

  ‘Sampson!’ Old Hag cackled. ‘Have you killed them yet? It’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Please help us, Old Hag!’ pleaded Amy, rather pathetically, yet quite sweetly.

  ‘Ha!’ sneered Old Hag snidely, sidling slowly up to Sampson’s side. ‘And
ha! again for luck. I’m with him in this evil adventure, foolish children.’ She rubbed the back of her hand gently across Sampson’s cheek, then gently across his face. ‘After all, he is my dear son. Or didn’t you realise that? Hmmm? You both look shocked. Ha! First you believed my cunning yet insufferable Black Country dialect disguise, then you miss all the other equally cunning clues. You were so wrapped up with your silly adventure and those interminable visits to tea shops!’

  Ricky could not believe his own ears again. ‘Your son?’ he gasped, shocked yet slightly enthralled by the revelation.

  But Amy, bless her, was not quite as shocked, for she had heard Sampson call Old Hag Mummy on stage. At the time she had thought it was just very good acting indeed. It had slowly dawned on her (although it had taken until sunset) that Old Hag was not as she seemed. In fact, she was worse than she seemed, so that was incredibly bad for everyone.

  ‘You two evil persons!’ said Ricky, glaring firmly at them both as he struggled to free himself.

  ‘But you don’t look much like Old Hag,’ said Amy to Sampson. ‘I’d say you look more like Clarissa the stunt nun and, erm, tell me Ricky, who else does he remind you of? His mightily small ears seem so familiar.’

  Ricky stopped struggling and studied him carefully. Amy was right, Sampson did look like someone they knew. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose . . . hmmm, he does look a lot like Uncle Quagmire – the ears and the hair, and the eyes and the mouth, but that’s plain silly. How could . . .’

  Old Hag suddenly looked quite agitated! ‘No!’ she interrupted, dramatically waving her arms about in a fit of intense overacting. ‘I was swept away by the magic of Salzburg! I was the innocent party! He forced himself on me! I was young!’

  Ricky and Amy looked at each other and frowned a secret frown. This was impossible! They could never imagine Old Hag being young. Amy in particular wondered what she was on about. Salzburg? Magic? Party? But she didn’t want to look even more stupid than was necessary at this stage, so she kept quite quiet.

  ‘What?’ Sampson moaned. He dropped the Persian cat, which slouched off murmuring in broken English about the offhand treatment of Middle Eastern immigrants. ‘What are you saying?’ Sampson continued. ‘Mummy, tell them about Bartle de Lylow, my daddy, and how he was killed in some distant war when I was still suckling noisily at your breast . . .’

  ‘Yeuk!’ said Ricky. ‘Too much information!’

  ‘Suckling?’ queried Amy.

  ‘. . . and that he was an evil hero who shot people just for the fun of it,’ Sampson continued. ‘Tell them! And while you’re at it, tell me why you look so very old all of a sudden.’

  But Old Hag had had enough. ‘Ha! I need to pee,’ she said, mysteriously scuttling off and taking her various veins with her. She paused in the doorway. ‘Sampson, my boy! Your evil future is at stake here so I want you to kill them by the time I get back. And that’s an order from your dear old, erm, your dear young mummy!’

  Sampson watched Old Hag disappear, then turned to look down at Ricky and Amy. He tried to sneer again but his sneer had become too floppy for it to be of any immediate use. In fact, he looked upset and rather confused for someone intent on dominating the world in thirty years’ time.

  ‘He does look very like Uncle Quagmire,’ said Amy. ‘How queer!’

  ‘I’m Bartle’s son!’ Sampson spluttered. ‘And proud of it! I love dado rails, so I must be his offspring! He always wanted me to be evil, Mummy told me so!’

  ‘Then why do you look like our Uncle Quagmire?’ asked Ricky. ‘Actually, come to think of it, and this is not a good thought, we must have been there, nearby, when you were so hastily conceived. Earlier today, to put a time stamp on it.’

  ‘I don’t understand all this!’ wailed Amy. ‘Will someone please explain!’

  ‘ You don’t understand?’ said Sampson. ‘What about me? Mummy said I should try to be very very evil and set my objective to dominate the world, as the Careers Officer didn’t think I’d make a good door-to-door milkman or Anglican priest due to my knobbly knees. I tried to resist being evil until you . . .’ – he pointed his cake slice at Ricky – ‘made me very angry indeed on stage. You played my castanet solo! I was ejected from Bash!! I was deeply and utterly humiliated! Now you have to die!’

  Much to Ricky and Amy’s intense disappointment, his sneer was returning.

  ‘I wish Whatshisname was here, bursting through the door and mounting a daring rescue attempt without any regard for his own life,’ cried Amy. ‘Come to think of it, I do believe I can smell creosote and pineapple! This is so exciting! Rescue at last!’

  Both Ricky and Sampson turned to look in the direction of the door. They sniffed the air. They waited for a minute or so before shrugging their respective shoulders and accepting that the daring rescue attempt without any regard for Whatshisname’s own life might not be going to happen after all.

  Sampson quickly returned to his threatening old ways. ‘Okay, so no-one’s going to rescue you. Now you have to die!’

  But Ricky was getting fed up of it all, especially all the endless sneering, and suddenly became even more somewhat braver. ‘Listen,’ he said to Sampson. ‘I’m becoming more somewhat braver, as well as getting really fed up of it all, especially your endless sneering, it seems. Untie us this instant! You aren’t evil at all. Renounce evil. You are good! Jolly good! I don’t believe that Old Hag is your real mother, or that Bartle was your father.’

  ‘Ricky!’ said Amy. ‘Is this helping? And can you please go slower?’

  But Ricky was on a roll. ‘I think kindly Uncle Quagmire is your real father – which does beg a question about fidelity, by the way – and kindly Clarissa the stunt nun is your natural mother. I think Old Hag snatched you . . .’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ moaned Amy.

  ‘ . . . and you are not really evil,’ continued Ricky. ‘Old Hag is just using you for her own evil ends.’

  ‘So does that mean . . .’ began Amy.

  ‘Huh? Not evil?’ asked Sampson, unsneeringly. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Ricky, does that mean . . .’ began Amy again.

  ‘Yes, Sampson,’ said Ricky. ‘You’re not evil! Think of the good you can bring to the world. Think Nobel prizes! Think Blue Peter badges! In fact, you could be like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun, like a bright starry thing of heaven in the broad daylight.’

  Amy looked strangely at Ricky, not realising that being pressed against The Romantics was having a sublime effect on the embodiment that was her brother.

  ‘Ricky!’ she said. ‘Very good speech, albeit it a bit flowery, but does all that about Uncle Quagmire mean that . . . does it mean that . . . what does it mean?’

  ‘And why should I do good?’ Sampson shouted. He bent down, waving the cake slice close to Ricky’s face. ‘Say your goodbye, Ricko, castanet solo stealer. You are going to be the first member of your precious Secret Five to die a death worse than fate itself!’

  ‘No, Sampson!’ shrieked Amy. ‘Listen! I’m being rather clever for a change, so it’ll be worth it. If Ricky is right, and our Uncle Quagmire is your father – although I don’t understand at all how that can happen – that makes you some sort of relative to us, doesn’t it? And, incidentally, I think it makes our Uncle Quagmire some sort of untrustworthy scoundrel.’

  Sampson looked at Amy. He was obviously thinking quite hard, as his little ears were wiggling and waggling.

  ‘You’re right, Amy!’ Ricky said, in a rather grasping-at-straws tone of voice. ‘Sampson here would be our, erm, brother-in-law . . . no, wait, third cousin-in-law . . . no . . .’

  Just then, before Ricky could grasp the simplest of situations, and just as Sampson looked as though he was about to renounce a bit of evil and ruin the promise of a cliffhanger, a chapter break appeared without a by-your-leave, startling them all!

  Chapter Thirty Five

  In which The Secret Five are reunited; Daniel gasps a bit; Ricky gets killed; no he does
n’t; yes he does; stop this arguing; okay; Betty has had enough, and flips; things are bad; no, really they are, death and destruction stalk the pages like a big fat stalking thing.

  Daniel didn’t know what had happened. He had landed with a big bump in a handy deserted corner of a school library. How strange! He had a hint of a headache, and a hazy memory of a meal with some Victorian people, a conversation with a real squire and some nice wine and . . . ‘Oh gosh!’ he said, quite embarrassed as he recalled drinking at least one tiny glass of red wine. Of course! That might be the cause of his feeling a little under the weather, which was bright with an eighty percent chance of a badly-needed shower.

  ‘Oh, oh, I think I had a little too much to drink,’ he mumbled to himself. He felt really bad about that, as he had made a point of attending a special Secret Five seminar on The Perils Of Tonic Wine and Overdosing on Blue Smarties.

  ‘Too right, Daniel!’ said Betty, from where she had landed. ‘Now will you just get off me? And move your hands! Boys! You’re all the same!’

  Daniel, quite embarrassed yet quite intrigued, slowly moved his hands. ‘Sorry. But where are we? And where’s Whatshisname and Uncle Quagmire?’ He stood up on his own two feet and looked around him.

  ‘Hopefully we’re in 1980,’ Betty said. ‘Uncle Quagmire sent us here, remember? He said, rather peculiarly, that he had some unfinished business with Alice the mysterious Victorian maid and that, against the odds, he would somehow find his own way back. I don’t know where Whatshisname is, though.’ She looked around her. No Whatshisname! Had he become lost, wandering through time for eternity, never to appear in any more exciting adventures?

  No chance. Unbeknown to the children, and quite secretly, our brave but ugly hero now looked dolefully down on Betty and Daniel from the top of some bookshelves, where he had landed. At first he thought he had died and had been granted a last look down at his pals before entering the tunnel with the light at the end and where there would be an endless supply of peanut butter treats and an immediate opportunity for a painless testicle re-installation operation followed by endless heavenly opportunities for frenzied canine copulation.