fingernails.
Another lonely night down at the butcher’s. The flies buzzed lazily through the murk. Billy sat with his feet on the counter, staring up at the clock.
Seven o’clock.
Seven thirty.
Eight o’clock.
If only I could tell the time, thought Billy. Then at least there’d be some point starin’ up at the clock.
But he couldn’t. AND THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU BUNK OFF SCHOOL LIKE BILLY, SO WATCH IT.
‘Well,’ sighed Billy as the evening wore on. ‘Looks like Mr Gum ain’t comin’ in tonight neither, the lousy stinkin’ – hey, there he is!’ he cried suddenly. ‘Me best pal in the whole world what I’d never say a bad word about! He’s back!’
And yes! There was Mr Gum now, creeping along the high street in his hobnail boots. His big red beard blazed like a beacon in the twilight. His bloodshot eyes darted cunningly around, looking for trouble. His dusty jacket flapped out behind him like a bad wizard’s cloak. And he was licking his lips greedily. He wanted the scoffs.
‘An’ I’m the one to give him them scoffs,’ grinned Billy. ‘I’m gonna feed him up like a champion! Everythin’s back to normal.’
But that’s where Billy was wrong. Mr Gum walked straight past Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats. He crossed over the road, kicked a beer can at a nightingale, and disappeared round the corner.
Billy did a thought. Then, without a second thought, he slunk out of the butcher’s shop. Taking care to keep to the shadows and to not yell out things like, ‘HEY, MR GUM! I’M FOLLOWING YOU!’ Billy crept after his horrible old pal.
‘Shabba me whiskers!’ he heard Mr Gum mutter up ahead. ‘I’m gonna be late for me dinner!’
Oho! Billy nodded to himself. ‘Late for dinner is it? I knew he was up to something! But what? It’s a mittersy.’ (You see, that was how Billy William pronounced the word ‘mystery’.)
Mr Gum picked his way through the quiet streets, his hobnail boots clomp-clomp-clompin’ on the cobblestones. And behind him rode Billy William on his magic unicorn, Elizabeth.
‘Hang on,’ frowned Billy. ‘I ain’t got no magic unicorn called Elizabeth.’
Mr Gum picked his way through the quiet streets, his hobnail boots clomp-clomp-clompin’ on the cobblestones. And behind him crept Billy William. There were no magic unicorns in sight.
By now Mr Gum had come to the stone steps that led down to the old canal. Mr Gum did a big crafty look and went tiptoeing down the slimy steps. Billy did an even bigger crafty look and went tiptoeing after him. Mr Gum did an ENORMOUS crafty look and went tiptoeing along the canal towpath. Billy did an even BIGGER crafty look which was so large it didn’t even fit on his face. But somehow he managed it because that’s how determined he was to look craftier than Mr Gum.
The two bad men tiptoed along the canal, the dirty water lapping softly in the evening breeze. Many years ago the canal had been a glorious waterway, transporting over 90% of all England’s emails down to Cornwall. But in these modern times all the email transportation was done over the Internet and no one used the canal any more, except to dump shopping trolleys in. The water was brown and useless. If you drank it you would die and I should know because I drank it once and I died.
But now a new smell came to Billy William’s long nose above the stench of the stagnant, brown water. It was the smell of old cooking oil and chip fat. And suddenly a cold chill passed over him as he realised where Mr Gum was headed.
‘No,’ whispered Billy. ‘It couldn’t be . . . It’s too upsettin’ to even imagine . . .’
But there it was. A fizzing neon sign, which blinked and buzzed in the darkness like a sinister fig.
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