Casper Candlewacks in Death by Pigeon! Read online

  A monstrous prickling pang of guilt surged through Casper’s body. Getting his own back was one thing, but he wished he could have done it a different way.

  Children were climbing on Sir Gossamer D’Glaze (the statue, not the corpse) to get a better view, and it was wobbling ominously. Flurries of frantic gamblers placed final flutters on their chosen donkey, or pushed to the front of the crowd to get a good view. Audrey Snugglepuss was the first to notice Julius.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man,” she said, striding towards him, waggling her bony thumb-stump. “We’re a laughing stock, you know.”

  Sandy Landscape, who had been standing nearby kicking a flowerbed, joined in. “Arr, you done poisoned ’im up good ’n’ proper,” he said.

  Julius’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Mummy, Mummy, look!” came a sharp, shrill voice. “It’s the food murderer!” It was that brat Anemonie Blight and her pointy mother. She puffed out her cheeks and clutched her neck. “Help! Someone help! He’s poisoned me!”

  Mrs Blight simpered and wrinkled her pointy nose at Julius. “Stay away from him, Nemmie. You don’t know where he’s been.”

  “It wasn’t Dad’s fault,” said Casper, blood boiling.

  “What, poison himself, did he?” said Audrey Snugglepuss.

  “No,” said Casper, “Dad didn’t know about the allergy, that’s all.”

  “The boy genius is telling us what we don’t know now, is he?”

  “I didn’t mean that!”

  “Come on, Casp. Just ignore them.” Julius put his arm round Casper and led him away, but they followed on behind, pointing fingers and whispering.

  “Hi, Casper!” called Lamp, bounding over from across the square.

  Casper groaned. Lamp looked ridiculous in his blue boiler suit and pointy green hat. His hands, clothes and mouth were covered in black sticky grease. By the look of his vacant grin, he’d completely forgotten about last night.

  “Sorry about my mess,” Lamp drawled. “I was trying to make some edible ink, but it didn’t work and I can’t get it off. What are all those people looking at?”

  “Nothing, Lamp. Look, I’m not in the mood for—” but at that moment the big horn sounded, announcing the arrival of Mayor Rattsbulge and Fatima the ferret. The mayor carried an extra-large bag of chips, paid for, as was all of his food, by the Corne-on-the-Kobb heritage fund. Casper, Lamp and Julius (and Cuddles, noisily trying to gnaw its way out of the backpack) hurried over to a spot near the statue, creaking under the burden of so many children, and they waited for the race to begin.

  “Before we start,” said Mayor Rattsbulge, putting aside his chips for a moment, “I bring news that will please you all. The Great Tiramisu is in a healthy and stable state after last night’s… events.”

  “No thanks to him,” said Audrey Snugglepuss with a sideways sneer at Julius.

  Casper bit his lip and worried. This wasn’t going well.

  “That’s quite enough,” the mayor said, silencing the crowd. “No harm done. Now, on with the race.”

  The crowd cheered and switched attention to the starting line, where the six donkeys were lined up in their decorative saddles, hats and scarves. Mayor Rattsbulge opened the cage and took out a squirming Fatima. He held her up to the starting ribbon, and she did just as rehearsed and snapped it with her sharp little teeth. The race had begun! From out of the highest window of the town hall, Larry Flip-Flop commentated on the race through a megaphone

  We’re under starter’s orders… and they’re off! The first donkey round three laps of the square will be champion. Chimney Chap has made a good start; so has Marzipan House and… oh dear! Ol’ Toney hasn’t started. I think he’s asleep! Hope none of you put any cash on him – I could run faster than that creaky mule. Now here comes McFrockles, putting some serious hoof into it, passing Marzipan House. Looks like it’s clouding over now – good news for Chimney Chap, who thrives on muggy conditions. Ol’ Toney’s woken up now, but he looks tired already. We’re on to the second lap… Wait, was that a spot of rain? Yep, it’s definitely raining. Bad news for Butterly Clasp – she’s got dry-course hooves on for this race. Oh, darn, did I leave the washing on the line? Now Bunty’s Lad takes the lead and the crowd seems to like it, while Ol’ Toney is having a sit-down. They’ve lapped him! He’ll have his work cut out now. Chimney Chap is dropping back, but McFrockles slips and almost falls as the rain gets heavier. You know what, I did leave my washing out, and it’s tipping it down now. It’ll be soaked. Marzipan House takes second place now. We’re nearing the third lap, and Ol’ Toney’s back in the hunt, but a good lap-and-a-half behind. But as they say, it’s not over till the fat donkey sings. They say something like that, anyway. Hot favourite Bunty’s Lad has put some space between himself and the pack now, but Butterly Clasp is slipping about on those wet cobbles like Clemmie Answorth after a couple of gins. Was that thunder? I’m pretty sure I just heard thunder. Chimney Chap has pricked up his ears and looks alarmed… knock me down, he’s running away! Watch out, people, donkey on the loose. Oy, Mrs Woons, watch out! Watch… oh, my! Can we get a medic over there, please? Back to the race, there are… wait… two, three… carry the one… five donkeys left. I can hardly see the course ’cause of this rain. And… oh, my goodness! Butterly Clasp has slipped on a cobble. He’s down! He’s out of the race. I told you his dry-course hooves were a problem. Back at the front we’re nearing the final turn with Bunty’s Lad leading and McFrockles and Marzipan House in hot pursuit. Oh, no – another clap of thunder. But it’s going to be Bunty’s Lad! He’s got just metres to go… Bunty’s Lad now… the crowd is going wild… he’s going to do it, and… what? Did you see that? A bolt of lightning has… well, it struck Bunty’s Lad! And in the confusion McFrockles and Marzipan House have clattered right into him and they’ve tripped over too. This is incredible! It’s all down to Ol’ Toney. He still has a lap to go, but he’s the only donkey left. Come on, Ol’ Toney! More lightning strikes, but it won’t daunt Ol’ Toney: he’s deaf as a doorknob. He’s nearing the final corner, picking up the pace. The crowd are booing, they wanted Bunty’s Lad to win. This will be a big turn-up for the donkeys. And here he comes into the final straight. Ol’ Toney will pass the line first, and… he does! It’s all over! Ol’ Toney takes the donkey crown! The crowd are very upset… Oh, my, they’re throwing things! Everyone’s lost a whole lot of money here and they’re not happy. Wait a sec, hold your donkeys for a moment… Look! Look at the statue, everyone, it’s… Sir Gossamer D’Glaze… he’s collapsed. This is terrible!

  Casper and Julius surveyed the scene in horror. The rain poured down in buckets and the thunder shook the ground, while men, women, children and Lamp ran about in panic. Around the fallen statue were wailing youngsters and their agitated parents – luckily nobody was seriously hurt (apart from Sir Gossamer D’Glaze, whose pieces were strewn across the square, and who had, quite frankly, seen better days). Meanwhile, furious at losing their money through such strange circumstances, crowds of penniless villagers threw insults, punches and other villagers at the bookmaker’s. Over in the far corner, little old Betty Woons was out for the count, having been hit by a speeding donkey. The local doctor was trying to bring her round with smelling salts and offers of jelly beans. At the same time Lamp had thrown off his hat and was running through the square, arms aloft, screaming something about duffel coats, and at the point where Clemmie Answorth rushed past Casper and Julius brandishing a carving knife, they knew it was time to leave.

  Chapter 7

  Curseon the Kobb

  At this point in my tale, the whole thing gets rather weird. So if you don’t like it when whole things get rather weird, I suggest you should stop reading this and do something worthwhile, like knitting, or fencing, or perhaps both at the same time. (It’s called ‘fenting’ and is the second most dangerous sport in the world, after extreme-bear-angering.) Go on, off you pop!

  Right, now they’ve popped o
ff, I can carry on with my tale. To be honest, I’m glad they’re gone, anyway. They were smelly and kept coughing really loudly during the good bits.

  Casper awoke on Monday morning to the sound of rain. That wasn’t much of a surprise – it had rained relentlessly through Saturday, got harder on Sunday and kept him awake for most of Sunday night. It was all very well having an umbrella, but with this sort of weather you really needed a boat. Some of the village had flooded: it was worst down by the village pub, The Horse and Horse, where the water was so deep you had to wear armbands. Cracklin Crescent wasn’t so bad, but Casper Candlewacks had other things to worry about.

  Julius hadn’t got out of bed since the donkey race; he’d had enough humiliation for a lifetime, let alone a weekend. Casper had done his best to cheer his dad up, bringing him mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches, but each time Julius just grunted and rolled over. In the end Casper gave up and spent the rest of his weekend drawing vampires and listening to the rain. He’d considered owning up about the lie; he’d even practised what to say, but was worried about doing so while there were knives in the house.

  There was a leak in the roof above the kitchen, which Casper had plugged himself (he used a banana, some masking tape and a pot of honey, and it had actually worked quite well). The TV, which had been on the blink for a while, finally gave out that morning, so Amanda was swearing at it and hitting it and threatening it with a lawsuit, but to no avail. But worst of all, Cuddles was teething. The screams could be heard from space.

  There was nothing for breakfast except for a banana and some honey, but they were busy; so Casper left for school on an empty stomach. The first step outside soaked his left trainer. The second soaked his right. The third went squelch, and the rest of them did pretty much the same as the third one. Corne-on-the-Kobb looked a state this morning: five separate angry men were struggling to get their cars started and grunting angrily every time they failed. The whole place smelt strange as well; imagine soggy cabbage mixed with barbecued socks and you’re halfway there. The park was a mess; the grass had turned to sludge and the trees looked rotten and withered. Benches had blown over in the wind, as had some bushes, bits of fence and Clemmie Answorth. In her struggle to get up she’d dug herself quite a mud-pit, but Casper helped her out and offered her his coat. She shivered a “Thank you” and tottered home to dry off and warm up. By the time Casper had arrived at school, he was utterly confused. He couldn’t put his finger on it; everything in the village was just… different.

  The morning’s lessons were terrible. Class 6 were supposed to watch a video about the Romans, but Mrs Snagg couldn’t get the TV to work. Instead, they had to copy out from their textbooks, but the pages of Casper’s textbook were all stuck together and his pencil leads kept snapping. Then Lamp arrived late with an oily grin on his oily face, and even when Mrs Snagg punished his lateness with three hours’ chopping wood for the staffroom fireplace, he just grinned and trotted off quite happily. Meanwhile, Anemonie Blight had pulled Teresa Louncher’s hair too hard and a whole pigtail had come off in her hands. Teresa’s wails were deafening. Mrs Snagg just rolled her eyes, stuck in some earplugs and got back to ogling her sizzling summer special of Hunks in Trunks. To top it all, Anemonie spent the rest of the morning putting clumps of hair down Casper’s shirt.

  Lunchtime arrived, and while the rest of the school were allowed to stay inside, Mrs Snagg locked Class 6 out in the playground. Their spiky teacher was in plain view, sitting in the cosy staffroom, toasting marshmallows over the crackling fire and marking everyone’s homework with an ‘F’. Casper tried to shield himself from the monsoon, but without his coat he was soaked to the bone marrow within moments. On the other side of the playground, Anemonie had pushed Ted Treadington over into a deep puddle and was now standing on his head.

  Lamp, having finished chopping his wood, spotted Casper and galloped over. “Hi! Casper!”

  “Hello, Lamp,” Casper sighed. “I’ve got some great news!” Lamp was breathless. “Guess why I was late?”

  Casper clicked his teeth. “Why?”

  “I’ve done it! My buggy is working!” Lamp was so excited that he did a little trot on the spot and then hiccupped.

  Casper managed a doubting smile. “Well done.”

  “Do you want to come and try it after school?”

  “I… I can’t.” Casper searched for an excuse. “I’ve got to go… fishing.”

  “Fishing? Can I come?”

  But Casper’s response was saved by a pigeon, who waddled towards Casper and cooed demandingly. Casper searched his pockets for something to feed it, and found some three-week-old stale chocolate buttons. He scattered them in the puddles in front of the pigeon, but it waded right past the buttons and carried on towards Casper.

  “All right,” he said, “you don’t like chocolate.”

  Three more pigeons fluttered in to join the first, trotting towards Casper and starting to peck at his ankles. Confused, Casper lightly kicked one away, but it just landed on Lamp’s arm and started pecking that instead.

  “Gerroff!” yelled Lamp, flapping his arm around.

  Casper kicked more aggressively now. “Stop it. I don’t have anything else!” he shouted, sending wet pigeons and clumps of feathers everywhere, but the commotion only attracted more of the blighters. Soon the whole flock was crowding around the boys, trying to get a peck of their limbs, like children round an ice-cream van, and it was really beginning to hurt.

  Lamp’s upper body was completely covered in pigeons now, and no shaking or screaming was going to do anything. “Help!” he shouted. “Help me!”

  The rest of Class 6, who had until now thought Casper and Lamp were just playing a quick game of that family favourite, Be Attacked by Pigeons, scurried over to help. But as they arrived, more pigeons launched themselves at the children and got pecking. Anemonie shrieked and tried to bat them off, but it was too late: the pigeons had already latched on to her with their little talons, unfolded their little pigeon napkins, got out their little pigeon knives and forks and tucked in. Casper shielded his face while trying desperately to shake himself free of the pigeons, but their claws dug firmly into his wet clothes and skin. Most of the class had dropped to the floor now, rolling about and screaming like terrified sausage rolls. The pigeons pecked away at Class 6 as if they were covered in the scrummiest pigeon feed this side of the bins round the back of The Boiled Sprout. Casper feared to shout for help in case a pigeon would jump inside his mouth and call it lunch; he couldn’t even open his eyes for fear of pigeon-peck blindness. He just rolled around in the puddles and wished the dirty birds would stop finding him so very tasty.

  And then, suddenly – BANG!

  The pigeons scattered, flying in every direction. The sixteen victims lying in the muddy puddles, exhausted and scarred, were greeted by the sight of Mayor Rattsbulge with a shotgun in hand.

  “Man-pecking-pigeons, eh?” the fat mayor murmured to himself. “What next?”

  Casper inspected his peck marks. He was bleeding in twelve places and his clothes were ripped. Next to him, Lamp sat half submerged in a puddle, picking feathers out of his hair. “Mayor, I… I think you just saved our lives,” said Casper.

  “All in a day’s work, men,” the portly gentleman said. Shoving his gun under one arm, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a large Cumberland sausage and took a hefty bite. He wasn’t dressed in his normal mayoral attire, but in full military uniform. Far too small for his bulky frame, his bloated pink wrists and ankles poked out of his sleeves and trouser-legs, and his giant belly flopped out under his khaki shirt. (When he was younger and ate fewer pies, Mayor Rattsbulge used to be in the army. He fought in the Four Hours’ War and won a medal for his animal impressions.) He put the sausage away and cleared his throat.

  The class of terrified children picked themselves up and joined the mayor. Casper spoke up. “What’s going on, Mr Mayor?”

  “Hard to say. All started at the donkey race. Disaster after disas
ter.” He marched up and down in front of the sixteen peckees, then he picked up his shotgun and fired straight past Casper’s shoulder, hitting one stupid returning pigeon at the first attempt, producing a stinking cloud of pigeon bits and matted feathers. He continued regimentally. “This rain, the race, the statue collapsing, cars won’t start, all the milk in the village has gone sour, poor Betty Woons hasn’t woken up yet, not even for jelly beans…”

  Ted Treadington spoke up. “My shoes didn’t fit this morning, sir.”

  A few of the other children nodded and murmured agreement. Casper wriggled his toes in his soggy trainers. They did feel rather tight.

  The mayor and his chins nodded knowingly. “Something’s happening, chaps, and we’ve got to fight.” That explained the military uniform then.

  Casper frowned. “Fight who?”

  “AH!” Mayor Rattsbulge’s exclamation was so loud that Teresa Louncher started crying, and one sneaky pigeon who’d almost got to Lamp (it hadn’t had pudding) flapped away again in panic. “That’s the question. For now, I need to get you troops inside.” He ushered the bruised and shivering children of Class 6 towards the school, but as they approached the door, Mrs Snagg appeared from behind it and blocked their way with a prickly snarl.

  “You’re not bringing them in here, Mayor. They need their fresh air.”

  “Don’t you dare order me about, Hillary,” boomed Mayor Rattsbulge. The class giggled. “There’s a war on, you know.”