Casper Candlewacks in Death by Pigeon! Page 7

  Chapter 12

  Bubbles?

  Everybody was silent, silent as a whole group of mice that had just discovered that two little mice from another mouse hole had ruined their annual cheese festival.

  The mayor, bow ties a-quiver, broke the silence. “… Bubbles?”

  Some of the crowd murmured to their neighbours, “Bubbles?”

  Lamp and Casper’s eyes met. Casper blinked and shook his head. “Bubbles?”

  Then attention shifted to The Great Tiramisu, whose eyes had not moved from the thick plume of washing-up froth still piling out of the marquee. He raised his eyes from the bubbles to the mayor and then to the shocked crowd. His moustache twitched and then he opened his mouth to speak.

  “BUBBLES!” he sang in pure delight, and he bounded gaily towards the soapy mass. He dived in, sending clumps of foam flying in all directions, covering the mayor and the front of the crowd from head to toe. He frolicked away like a piglet in a sludge pit, clutching handfuls of froth and blowing them into the air and squealing with joy again as he dived back in. Re-emerging with a grin on his face the size of Mayor Wimperly-Fescott’s bank statements, he sang, “I love-a the bubbles!”

  The villagers looked at one another, wide-eyed. Where had their blinking coriander festival gone? What the blazes was that Great Tiramisu doing? And most importantly, how long until blithering suppertime?

  As the Upper Crustenburians looked on agape at The Great Tiramisu leaping about in his ever-growing bubblebath, Lamp leant over to Casper with a knowing wink. “I think I know what happened.”

  Casper also had a theory. “The Buggy?”

  “Yeah! I left the engine running.”

  “And all the coriander is buried beneath the bubbles!”

  “Did I just save The Great Tentacle’s life?”

  “I think you did, Lamp. You’re a genius.”

  Lamp chuckled and rearranged his boiler suit. “I know.”

  But while The Great Tiramisu was having the time of his life in his bubbly paradise, Mayor Wimperly-Fescott was not amused. In fact, to say he was a bit on the angry side would be like saying Mayor Rattsbulge was a bit on the podgy side. The mayor’s face trembled, his white lips were pursed; his Adam’s apple had swollen to the size of a scotch egg, putting worrying amounts of pressure on his bow ties. “Who is behind this japery?” he demanded.

  “Hi! Over here,” called out Lamp, lifting himself clumsily to his feet.

  The crowd gasped.

  “Bring them here!” yelled the mayor.

  Meanwhile The Great Tiramisu had moulded an elegant foamy beard and oversized bubble eyebrows, and was now displaying them to the crowd. “You look-a to me, I make-a the bubble face!” he said, but for the first time in his life, no one was watching him. The mayor’s irate face had bulged and flushed like a knobbly potato, and as Casper and Lamp approached they could see his whole frame wobbling with swallowed rage. He scowled at the two boys as if they had been bathing in cowpats, or spending his money, or any number of other disgusting things.

  “Can you guttersnipes quite fathom what you’ve accomplished?” he spat.

  “Yes, sir,” they said together. Lamp giggled.

  “And you consider it amusing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If looks could bake cakes, Mayor Wimperly-Fescott’s furious leer would’ve rustled up a triple-layered, poison-flavoured, exploding gateau with full-fat frog spawn icing, topped with a sprinkling of crushed scorpion tails and mouse droppings. (One of his bow ties, unable to take the pressure, pinged away and hit the toothy chap from the front row on the nose.) “Why, you oafs, you snivelling urchins, you—”

  “EEK!”

  All eyes swung to The Great Tiramisu, suddenly frozen in the bubbles and staring in terror at a little speck of green floating in the froth. For a moment he remained still, and then he spotted another green speck and another. His face curled up into a deathly grimace, his still-bubbly eyebrows bending and skewing like caterpillars at a party, his perfectly white teeth beginning to chatter in his trembling mouth.

  “C-C-CORIANDER!” he shrieked. He was surrounded by it; the little green specks of pure evil had formed a perfect circle round the magician and were advancing slowly upwards as more bubbles surged out of the marquee. The Great Tiramisu’s arms shot out from the killer froth and above his head, and he twisted around, searching for an escape. “Help! Help-a me!” he cried. “The coriander! My beautiful face cannot take any more!”

  The poor villagers hadn’t a clue what was happening. They muttered to each other that perhaps it was the start of a magic trick, or a piece of modern dance, or something that Italian people just like to do. The toothy chap had other ideas and tried to throw The Great Tiramisu a mint.

  “No, you idiota!” The coriander had crept above his waist now. “Get me out! Save-a me!”

  The toothy chap shrugged and offered the rest of his mints to the villagers, who hooted with delight and helped themselves.

  Casper had been standing back, watching the scene unfold, but at that moment he was struck by a very clever, and very heroic, plan. His plan was so clever and so heroic, in fact, that Hercules’s older, more heroic and much cleverer brother, Heroicles, who had done thirteen labours and had won the latest series of Greece’s Brainiest Hero without even doing any revision, would have taken one look at Casper and retired a broken man. Casper grabbed Lamp and stepped towards the bubble bath.

  “Hello, Mr Tiramisu,” he said as calmly as he could.

  The Great Tiramisu, shaking violently and sweating like a Brazilian woolly-jumper salesman, cried, “You, boys, please-a get me out! The coriander is all around-a me! Please-a help!”

  “Yes, we’ll help you,” said Casper, staying where he was.

  “Quick! The coriander is-a coming!” It was still rising and had reached The Great Tiramisu’s chest. “I’m too young and handsome to die…”

  “We’ll help you, but only if you make us a promise.”

  “Yes, anything. I-a promise anything. Just GET ME OUT!”

  Casper crossed his fingers. “Lift the curse that you placed on Corne-on-the-Kobb.”

  “All right! I will lift-a the curse!”

  “And stop being so mean to your animals,” added Lamp.

  He looked down at the coriander, creeping ever closer towards him. “OK, I promise, I promise! Anything to save my poor-a sweet face.”

  “And stop treating everyone like we’re your servants,” said Casper.

  “Yes! I promise! You are-a good people, I am sorry!”

  “Do you swear you’ll do those things?”

  “I swear! Now save-a me!”

  “Do you swear on your moustache?”

  The coriander had reached The Great Tiramisu’s shoulders. He yelped in fear and grasped his beloved quivering moustache. “I swear, I swear! Anything! Please!” Then the first speck of coriander touched his neck – he screamed and collapsed, crumpling down deep under the sea of bubbles, well and truly lost in its soapy depths.

  “Oh, Casper,” cried Lamp, “what do we do now?”

  Casper shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and dived in.

  Chapter 13

  Under the Bubbles

  Casper swam through the herb-infested bubbles in search of The Great Tiramisu. He took an accidental gulp of the lemon-fresh foam, which stung the back of his throat as it went down. Not daring to open his eyes, he floundered about blindly in the dark, hoping to grab The Great Tiramisu’s arm, leg, or moustache, but none of them were anywhere to be found. Lungs bursting, Casper came up for air.

  “I can’t find him!” he called to Lamp.

  Behind Lamp stood the snooty villagers, sucking their mints and watching intently, but still rather confused. Then a tall woman in a bonnet choked on her mint and pointed to Casper’s right, screeching, “There he is!”

  Casper saw a head appear above the surface, gasp for breath and then submerge again. He leapt towards it, but by the time he got there The
Great Tiramisu had disappeared.

  “No, over there!” shouted a red-faced jolly fellow, getting the idea.

  Casper caught sight of a moustache and dived to the left this time, but once more there was nothing. Emerging again, he saw every snooty villager pointing in a different direction, squealing and hopping about.

  “It’s no use,” Casper shouted, “we need to get rid of these bubbles!”

  “Hmm,” thought Lamp. Thinking was difficult for Lamp at the best of times; he scrunched up his eyes and scratched his head and stuck out his tongue, and he begged his brain to think of something useful for a change. After a few seconds, he clicked his fingers and grinned. “Put the buggy in reverse.”

  Casper, struggling to stay afloat, frowned. “What?”

  “Trust me, Casper, just do it.”

  There was no time for discussion. Casper launched himself towards the buggy with his best doggy paddle. He could see Lamp’s mum’s bloomers flapping gloriously on their broomstick, high above the bubbles. With the tide of bubbles against him, every stroke was exhausting, but his dad’s life depended on it, he told himself. Time to be a hero.

  Eyes and throat stinging, legs in agony, lungs bursting, Casper flung forward an arm and felt cold metal. With the last of his energy he clasped the golf club and jerked it away from him into reverse. The engine choked and wheezed like a lawn mower with asthma and then broke into a broad whooshing sound as the exhaust pipe began to suck the bubbles back in. Within moments, huge billows of foam were swarming towards him and back into the engine, like a swarm of Indonesian Engineering Wasps keen to examine the inside of an exhaust pipe.

  “It sucks them back in!” Casper clapped his hands. “It’s working!”

  As the bubbles flushed away, he was able to see Lamp hopping about nervously outside the marquee, searching the shallows for The Great Tiramisu. Then at last he stopped, pointed, and shouted, “Casper, I’ve found him!”

  All Casper wanted was a massage and a lie-down, but with the bubbles now at his ankles, he sprinted back out towards Lamp. As he left the marquee he could clearly see The Great Tiramisu outside, lying motionless on the floor, covered in green-speckled soapy bubble remains.

  Casper rushed over. “Quick, get these clothes off him. He can’t be near any coriander.”

  Needing no more encouragement, the women of the village (who found The Great Tiramisu rather dishy) squealed and ripped off his trousers and cape and began to bicker over who most deserved them. It was quickly agreed that one lady, who had produced a sharp little hat pin from her bonnet, was entitled to both.

  “I think he’s dead,” said Lamp, as he watched The Great Tiramisu. He lay still, dressed only in a pair of shiny purple underpants, a purple jacket and a purple top hat, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a lazy slug.

  Mayor Wimperly-Fescott bustled through the crowd, face knobbly as ever and steaming with anger, both bow ties now removed to make space for his trembling Adam’s apple. “Look what you’ve done,” he honked. “You’ve topped our blithering guest!” He strode towards the boys, fists clenched, but as he approached, Casper snatched The Great Tiramisu’s wrist and felt for a pulse.

  “No, sir, he’s alive. He’s just passed out from all that coriander you poisoned him with.”

  “What? I… poisoned…” The mayor stuttered and stood back, stunned. It was his fault? But that would mean paying compensation, and that would mean giving away his money, and that would mean less money to roll around in… Mayor Wimperly-Fescott shuddered and stumbled back into the crowd.

  Casper turned once again to the matter in hand. “Hey, Mr Tiramisu,” he shouted, “wake up!”

  The Great Tiramisu didn’t stir.

  “Wakey wakey,” Lamp joined in, shaking The Great Tiramisu’s arm, “rise and shine, breakfast time!”

  Still nothing.

  “Maybe he’s not hungry,” said Lamp.

  The Great Tiramisu looked peaceful lying there, but time was running out and the curse hadn’t been lifted.

  “How about smelling salts?” said Casper. “Strong smells are meant to bring people round.”

  “Smelly…” Lamp looked frantically around himself. “Ooh, I know!” He kicked off his left shoe, unpeeled his Monday sock and waved it in front of The Great Tiramisu’s nose. Nothing happened. Lamp shrugged, pulled open The Great Tiramisu’s mouth, and stuffed the sock inside.

  Instantly The Great Tiramisu spluttered, choked and awoke, coughing the sock and a lungful of bubbles out on to the ground beside him, before gasping for fresh air. He took a few moments to work out who he was, and then saw the chaotic scene around him, the boys standing over him, the snooty villagers and his skinny exposed legs and purple pants. Slowly, he murmured, “I… look… ridicolo…”

  “Uh-oh…” whispered Lamp.

  But then something very mysterious happened; something about as mysterious as a UFO taking the Loch Ness monster on a mysterious trip to the moon and having a chat on the way about something very mysterious. All of the silliness that surrounded The Great Tiramisu – the sea of bubbles, the coriander festival, the village of idiots, his purple top hat and purple Y-fronts glinting in the candlelight; well, if someone is surrounded by so much silliness, they can’t help but absorb some of it. So it makes sense that The Great Tiramisu, lying there all exposed on the floor, began to titter.

  Casper blinked and turned to Lamp. “Why is he…?”

  Lamp shrugged.

  The Great Tiramisu’s titter grew into a chuckle. “I… I look… ridicolo!” He looked down at himself again and cackled, slapping his pale thigh and cackling again.

  Lamp had begun to chuckle too. Casper was holding back a grin.

  The Great Tiramisu had tears in his eyes as he rolled about on the grass in fits of giggles. “Look at-a me! Look at-a me!” he cried, pointing to his half-naked frame and guffawing. “I look ridicolo!”

  Casper was laughing too now, Lamp was in stitches, and even the villagers chortled away (although they had absolutely no idea what was funny).

  The Great Tiramisu held his stomach and rocked back and forth, Casper had to lean on Lamp to keep himself upright, and Lamp had given himself hiccups.

  The children laughed and the upper-class pigeons laughed and the little sleeping hedgehog laughed; everyone laughed until their stomachs ached and their funny bones ran out of laughing juice.

  “You boys,” guffawed The Great Tiramisu, clambering to his feet. “You boys-a saved my life! With bubbles!” He tipped his head back and laughed again. “You beautiful bambini!” and with a squeal of delight he skipped over to the two boys and embraced them, kissing their foreheads one after another, squealing again and ruffling their hair. All of the Upper Crustenburians broke into a round of rapturous applause (apart from Mayor Wimperly-Fescott, that is, who crossed his arms resentfully and longed to go home and count his money).

  “Huzzah!” shouted the toothy fellow at the front.

  “Bravo!” another chap called.

  “Encore!” added a third.

  Lamp, still hiccupping, spat on his hand and rubbed the kisses off his forehead. Casper grinned and waved to the crowd.

  When the crowd’s cheering died down and The Great Tiramisu had got bored of cuddling his saviours, Casper said, “Mr Tiramisu, you made us a promise and we don’t have much time left. The villagers are feeding my dad to the pigeons at midnight.”

  A handful of the villagers (and a nearby pigeon) chuckled at the absurd claim.

  “No!” The Great Tiramisu called to the crowd. “Is not-a funny.” He looked gravely at Casper and Lamp. “Killer pigeons never funny.” He took out his wand and twirled it around, and it made a little ding! noise, a bit like a microwave when it’s finished cooking your turnips. “There,” he said, “it is done!”

  Casper had never felt so relieved. He grinned and shook The Great Tiramisu’s hand a little too vigorously. Lamp clapped and wiggled about with joy, and the villagers cheered and threw their top hats or ch
ildren in the air, depending on which was worth less money.

  “You’ll not regret this!” said Casper.

  “But you bambini be quick,” The Great Tiramisu said. “The curse, it still takes time to wear off. The pigeons they still eat-a your papa.”

  “What?” said Casper, shocked. He turned to Lamp. “We have to get back and set Dad free! Come on!”

  The Great Tiramisu, Mayor Wimperly-Fescott and the gathered Upper Crustenburians watched as Casper grabbed Lamp’s arm and disappeared off inside the marquee. There was a whole minute of silence, followed by the chugging into gear of an engine. Then, with a roar, the Bubbel Buggy ripped right through the canvas of the marquee, spraying a bubbly mess in every direction, Lamp and Casper perched triumphantly on top. They took one precarious lap round the marquee (with Lamp’s mum’s bloomers flapping triumphantly in the wind) and then belched off towards the road, leaving clouds of soapy spume filling the air. The ruined marquee teetered for a few moments, and then with surprising grace, it collapsed, deflating on top of itself and crushing the contents of the doomed coriander festival.

  As the lords and ladies filed away, honking and cheering and snorting vigorously, the children of the village larked about in the frothy trail of bubble exhaust, building bubble castles and playing bubble tag, and doing all of the other things children normally do when they find a field full of bubbles.

  “Positively terrific, wasn’t it, Quenty?” Lady Gwynette tittered as she strolled away from the village green, arm in arm with Lord Quentin, and she broke into a gleeful skip. “All those bubbles and the marquee and those spiffing boys! It was positively fabulous!”

  “Blithering waste of coriander, if you ask me,” grumbled Lord Quentin, wiping the last of the foam off his tailored suit.