of Lamonic Bibber were quiet at that late hour but presently there came the sound of footsteps as three shadowy figures turned into the high street. And now I will tell you who they were, for I have seen them before – and perhaps you know them too.
The leader was Friday O’Leary, a wise old man who knew the secrets of Time and Space. He carried a lantern which cast a ghostly yellow light on the icy cobblestones. Next came a nine-year-old girl called Polly. She too carried a lantern and it shone brave and true, just like her pure strong heart. And last of all came little Alan Taylor, the Headmaster of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor. He was a gingerbread man with electric muscles and he was only 15.24 centimetres tall. Alan Taylor was far too small to carry a lantern, but he had coated an acorn in glow-in-the-dark paint and that was almost as good.
‘’Tis late, friends,’ whispered Friday O’Leary as the church bells rang for ten o’clock, belting out like absolute marshmallows in the wintry night. ‘We should be getting home, for who knows what strange spirits are about in the Dead Of Winter?’
‘There are no strange spirits, kind Friday,’ chuckled Alan Taylor. ‘Methinks you have been spending too much time in the taverns, listening to the idle tales of drunken fools!’
‘Hey,’ said Polly. ‘Why’s everyone a-talkin’ all funny like in weird old books? We only done came out to gets a takeaway kebab.’
But just then a horrible wailing noise rose on the wind like an out-of-tune opera singer being dragged down a blackboard. Polly and Alan Taylor jumped in fright and Friday did a dozen press-ups in terror.
‘WURP!’ he trembled. ‘What was that?’
‘I gots no idea,’ gulped Polly. ‘But I don’t likes the sound of that sound one little bit.’
‘What if . . .’ squeaked Alan Taylor, bravely weeing himself in fear. ‘What if it’s Mr Gum?’
Now, at the mention of that name they all went very quiet, because there was nothing worse than Mr Gum, not even accidentally falling into a volcano full of history teachers. For Mr Gum and his no-good friend Billy William the Third were the worst criminals Lamonic Bibber had ever seen. And they had done some of the most shocking things of all time, including:
1. Trying to poison a massive whopper of a dog called Jake to death and destruction
2. Trying to steal a billion pounds off poor little Alan Taylor
3. Tons of other stuff I can’t think of at the moment
‘But Alan Taylor, no one’s seen Mr Gum for ages,’ said Polly.
‘Nonetheless, he might have come back,’ replied Friday gravely. ‘For as the famous saying goes – “He might have come back.” Let us investigate!’
And the three friends set off to see what was what, their lanterns swinging hopefully against the darkness. With each step they took the wailing grew louder, until –
‘It’s coming from the alley behind Mrs Lovely’s sweetshop,’ said Friday, and even as he said those words, a hunched-up figure appeared in the narrow passage, staggering towards them with outstretched arms like a mummy. Not the nice type of mummy, obviously. The type with dusty old bandages who’s always chasing you through museums at night because you dug them up out of their pyramid because you were a scientist and that’s what scientists do.
‘But hold on,’ frowned Polly. ‘We haven’t been messin’ around in no pyramids lately. That can’t be a mummy after all. Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s Mrs Lovely! An’ she’s been all duffed up an’ mangled!’
‘NO!’ cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue. ‘NO!’ he cried into the cold, cold night. ‘NOOOO!’
Talk of the Devil
But alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and she collapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.
‘What happened to thee?’ Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?’
‘Save your questions, Friday,’ advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.’
So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:
Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.
‘DEMONS!’ cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘’Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!’
‘You’re right, Jack!’ shrieked another. ‘’Tis demons for sure!’
And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.
‘Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘We’re not demons.’
‘Not even slightly?’ asked one of the men folk anxiously.
‘No,’ said Polly firmly. ‘You lot’s drunk too much beer an’ it’s turned your brains all fuzzy an’ full of bad ’maginations. Now go home, men folk, an’ get some sleep. An’ don’t blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘OK, nine-year-old girl,’ said the men folk, ‘you’re the boss, for some reason.’ And off home they went.
‘I do apologise about all that demon talk,’ said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs.
