Fizz stood and looked at the money (thousands and thousands of pounds, if the notebook was right) and wondered what to do. He could take it, or take some of it. If he filled his pockets up they’d never notice what was missing, would they? But what good would that do? And if Mrs Stinkthrottle looked in his pockets, or saw a five pound note sticking out, then she’d know and then he’d be in . . . well, not big trouble, he was in that already, but in bigger trouble, if such a thing were possible.
He put thoughts of the money out of his mind and got on with rummaging through the last few drawers, desperately looking for anything that might help him find a way out.
Suddenly he froze in the middle of searching. He thought he’d heard something.
Was that the downstairs door?
And then . . .
Was that the creak of the first step of the stairs?
It was. Wasn’t it?
There was another creak and suddenly Fizz was sure.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
He had to run for it.
His hand was still in what was quite clearly Mr Stinkthrottle’s underpants drawer. The idea of it turned Fizz’s stomach, but he’d had to look everywhere. Just as he decided to run, his hand brushed against something cold and hard, something metallic. On a reflex he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket, then he dashed back to the bathroom.
From the landing he could see it was Mrs Stinkthrottle returning up the stairs, but fortunately she was so bent (with her back like an upside down L, you’ll remember) that she couldn’t see up them very far at all. She didn’t seem to notice him dart back into the bathroom.
‘Johnnie? Little Johnnie,’ she croaked up the stairs. ‘Is it clean yet? Have you done a good job?’
‘I’m getting there,’ he called back, trying hard to not sound out of breath or scared. (He was both.)
‘Well, you can get out now,’ she snapped. ‘Come out of there. Just for a moment.’ (She was almost at the top of the stairs.) ‘I have to use the toilet. Go on, get out.’
Fizz stood on the landing, next to the bathroom door as the top of her blue-haired head came into view. She looked pained, impatient, urgent, angry. Her face was scrunched up as if she had waited too long before deciding to get up off the sofa. She was, in short, desperate. She peered at him through the tiny glasses at the tip of her nose and her eyes were so small and pointy and mad that he had to look away and when he did he saw . . .
He saw that he’d left the bedroom light on.
If she turned around now she’d see where he’d been. He’d be for it. In big trouble.
‘I’ve cleaned the sink, see?’ he said, hoping to distract her, but he need not have worried because she just pushed past him into the bathroom and locked herself in.
‘Stay there,’ she shouted through the door. ‘Don’t move an inch. I’ll be out in a minute. Oh yes, look. You’re a good boy, little Johnnie, you’ve made that sink gleam.’
Fizz breathed a sigh of relief and put his hands in his pockets.
There was something metal in there. What was that?
He pulled out the thing he’d snatched from Mr Stinkthrottle’s underpants drawer and saw it was an old pocket-watch on a long silver chain. (In the old days men would wear their watches in their waistcoat pocket, instead of on their wrists, and the chain would dangle from the pocket to a button hole where it would fasten, meaning they couldn’t drop their watch and no pickpocket could steal it.) On the back there was an engraving that said, in small curling letters: For A.J.S. on his 21st birthday. It had obviously been a present for someone, a long time ago by the look of it.
A pocket-watch.
Now why did that ring a bell with Fizz?
From inside the bathroom Mrs Stinkthrottle was making weird noises. There was banging and groaning and wheezing. There was moaning and grunting and series of sounds like balloons deflating. There was one noise like ripping Velcro. Fizz didn’t want to think about what she was doing. And I don’t want to think about it either, so I’m going to gloss over it, except to say it wasn’t going well.
Suddenly half a plan sprung into Fizz’s mind. He’d remembered what it was he’d forgotten about the pocket-watch and suddenly he had a feeling of hope. The first hopeful feeling he’d had since he’d joined the library, hours and hours ago. He had a suspicion he could get Kevin and himself out of the Stinkthrottles’ grasp, if only luck was on his side.
Leaving the old woman to her trials and tribulations in the bathroom, Fizz tiptoed down the stairs. He wasn’t afraid Mr Stinkthrottle would hear (the telly was still on, and the old man was, it had to be admitted, somewhat hard of hearing), but if his wife realised Fizz had gone, she’d be in a fury. He didn’t want to face her if he could help it.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused in the hallway, and practised swinging the pocket-watch slowly to and fro. The trick was not to do it too quick, otherwise it wouldn’t work. (There we go, that’s the plan coming into sight.)
He popped the watch back in his trouser pocket and picked up his old Ringmaster’s coat from the pile of plaster dust it had been dumped in when he first arrived. He tugged it on over his t-shirt and felt much more prepared, much better dressed, much more a boy of action. Much smarter, if not actually any cleaner.
Then he opened the door carefully and tiptoed his way into the front room. Old man Stinkthrottle didn’t seem to notice him. The television was still blaring away but he was sat on the sofa with his eyes shut and his head tilted to one side as if he was deep in thought. (The telly was so loud that Fizz really didn’t need to tiptoe, but he did it anyway. When attempting to escape, it never hurts to be extra careful.) He crossed the room and the old man didn’t open his eyes, not even when Fizz opened the kitchen door.
He crept into the kitchen and whispered Kevin’s name.
Kevin was in the same clean(ish) corner he’d been in when Fizz had first met him. But now he was kneeling on the floor scrubbing it with the edge of a small frying pan. Flakes of grime and grease were flying up into the air with each thrust of the pan.
‘Fizzlebert!’ Kevin said in surprise. He looked pleased to see Fizz, but then his face sank and he asked, ‘Did she send you down here? Is it time for dinner yet? I don’t know what we’re going to do tonight. They’re all out of tins of beans and I don’t know how to cook anything else.’
‘No,’ said Fizz, ‘she’s upstairs, in the . . . um, you know . . . in the loo. I’ve come to get you, because I think we can escape.’
‘What?’
Fizz quickly told Kevin his plan.
‘Do you really think you can do that?’
(Notice that I didn’t tell you Fizz’s plan? That’s called ‘maintaining the sense of suspense’. And if anyone thinks it’s because I don’t know Fizz’s plan, well it’s not. Because I do. So there.)
The two boys hurried back into the front room. They had to be quick, because Mrs Stinkthrottle could come back downstairs at any moment and Fizz really needed to have Mr Stinkthrottle on his own.
Kevin ran over and turned the telly off while Fizz ran up to the old man, who, as you’ll remember, was sat on the sofa.
He had his eyes shut, so Fizz prodded him. He would have preferred to use a stick or something (anything so as not to have to touch the old man), but he didn’t have one and so he tapped his shoulder with the very tipmost tip of his finger. Mr Stinkthrottle opened his eyes and, with a puzzled frown, immediately noticed the television wasn’t on. He banged the remote control on his knee and jabbed at the buttons.
Fizz stepped in between him and the telly and the old man finally noticed him.
Our hero dangled the pocket-watch on the end of its silver chain and started swaying it back and forth.
‘Look at the watch,’ he said, trying to get the right calm tone that Dr Surprise always used. ‘You are getting sleepy.’
Mr Stinkthrottle certainly did the first part. His eyes focussed on the shining watch face and followed it as it swung to t
he left and then to the right.
‘You are getting sleepy,’ Fizz repeated.
‘What?’ Mr Stinkthrottle looked up at the boy for a moment, before looking back at the watch.
‘You are getting sleepy,’ Fizz said, a bit louder.
‘Eh?’
The old man reached up behind each of his big ears and tapped his hearing aids. There was a squeak and a whistle and then they settled down again.
‘I said, “You are getting sleepy”!’ shouted Fizz.
‘I’m getting what?’
It looked so easy when Dr Surprise did it in the show, when he’d hypnotised people and made them do his bidding. But it didn’t seem to be working now. This had been Fizz’s one chance, to hypnotise the old man into opening the front door. Then Kevin and he could have just run away. They’d be free. But the old man seemed to not want to be hypnotised.
Kevin nudged Fizz in the back.
‘Come on,’ he whispered loudly, ‘is it working or not?’
Mr Stinkthrottle reached out before Fizz could answer and grabbed the watch in mid-swing. He held it where it was, with Fizz still holding the chain up above, and looked at it closely.
‘That’s my watch,’ he said loudly. ‘I know that watch. That’s mine. I lost it ages ago. That’s my missing watch! You’ve found my watch.’ For a moment he looked grateful, pleased to have found this thing he clearly treasured, but then his moustache quivered as if blown by an angry breeze and he snapped at Fizz: ‘You’re a thief! A little thief! Give me my watch back!’
Upstairs the toilet flushed.
All round the house pipes clanked and burbled and chugged, and the whole building seemed to shake. Piles of paper shifted across the floor. A plate fell off the wall and smashed. But worst of all, it was their warning that Mrs Stinkthrottle would be coming back very soon.
As the house shook, a new plan popped up inside Fizz’s head. If the old man had his heart set on this watch, maybe he could use it to make some sort of bargain.
Fizz snatched the watch away. He yanked the chain so hard it flew out of Mr Stinkthrottle’s snatching hands, and caught it in his own.
‘If you want this back,’ he said, ‘open the front door. Please.’
‘What? You little robber, you! Speak up,’ Mr Stinkthrottle snapped, cupping his hand behind his ear to hear better.
‘Just open the door, and I’ll give you your watch back.’
‘That’s mine that is. My pocket-watch. Give it back to me!’
‘Open the door, please!’
Mr Stinkthrottle made a sudden grab for the watch, but Fizz ducked out of the way. The old man followed him, surprisingly quick on his feet. He clearly wanted his watch back.
Fizz skipped a couple of steps backwards, heading towards the kitchen. This new plan was risky, but it might work. Anything was better than staying here in this horrible house with these horrible people.
Mr Stinkthrottle followed him, grabbing for the watch but always missing.
Fizz was in the kitchen and stood by the back door. When he’d first been stuck in there, at lunchtime, he’d tried the handle and knew the door was locked. But he’d also noticed that one of the panes of glass, right up at the top of the door, was broken (you can check in Chapter Seven if you don’t remember).
In one quick move Fizz threw the watch through that little hole in the glass and jumped to the side.
Mr Stinkthrottle wailed, ‘My watch!’ and lunged at the door.
The old man rattled at the door handle, just as Fizz had when he’d first tried it. Of course it wouldn’t open, but Mr Stinkthrottle stuck his hand down into his trouser pocket and began rummaging. He pulled out a stiff green hanky, and some boiled sweets fell to the floor along with some loose change and a harmonica, but suddenly there in his hand was a key.
He was so angry about his watch, this watch he’d lost and which he’d found again (in the hands of a little thief), that the thought of losing it yet again, so soon, was making his whole body shake. It took him a few tries to get the key in the keyhole, but much to Fizz’s relief he did, and he promptly turned it and opened the door.
‘My watch! There you are, I see you,’ Mr Stinkthrottle said as he sank to his knees in the garden. He picked it up and held it to his cheek. ‘Oh!’
The two boys didn’t hang around. They were out the back door like fish down a waterfall.
The first thing either of them did was breathe deep of the fresh(ish) air. (The plants nearest the back door were already beginning to droop as the rotten fish and damp mould smell slumped out of the kitchen.)
The second thing they did was look round the garden to see where they could go next.
The garden was a jungle, full of brambles and stinging nettles and unexpectedly bright wild flowers. Things scuttled away in the undergrowth, rustling and squeaking. The garden was surrounded by brick walls, blocking off views of the neighbours’ gardens, and the only likely path of escape was down a passage to the side of the house, which hopefully (the boys crossed their fingers) led back out to the road. They had to crawl through a few clinging, grasping bramble branches to get there, and climb over some ancient overloaded rusty dustbins in the alley, but they were so determined to escape that a few scratches and torn clothes weren’t going to hold them back.
‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Mrs Stinkthrottle, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Where are you going? What are you doing? You boys! Stop!’
She’d come downstairs and found everything changed: the telly off, her husband vanished. She shouted at the boys and shouted at Mr Stinkthrottle in the same breath, ‘You stop! Come back here. And you, get up, you’re just embarrassing yourself, you silly old fool!’
When she saw the boys scrabbling into the alleyway, she went back through the house moving faster than anyone would expect, and by the time they emerged from the passage out into the street she had pulled open the front door.
‘Stop! Stop!’ she shouted, hobbling up the front path like a bent little old lady once again.
The boys were out on the pavement and suddenly Fizz realised he had absolutely no idea where he was.
‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked Kevin.
Kevin shook his head.
‘Just run!’ they urged each other in the same breath.
As they ran off up the road Mrs Stinkthrottle reached the pavement. She was shouting, ‘Stop! Thieves! Burglars! Help! They’ve stolen my things! My handbag, my money, my pearls! Stop them!’ (More Stinkthrottle lies. Grrr.)
That was when Fizz’s luck ran out. On the other side of the road a couple of burly young men were just packing up for the day after having built a wall in a neighbour’s front garden. Hearing an old lady in distress, and seeing a couple of scruffy kids running away, they dropped their tools and started chasing the boys. ‘Oi, you! You’d better stop! Come back here!’
What would you have done if you’d been them? I mean, what did it look like?
Fizz glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw the men coming after them. They were both much bigger than either Fizz or Kevin and had longer legs and they were easily catching them up. Fizz put on an extra burst of speed, but he knew the race would soon be over. They’d be caught and marched straight back to Mrs Stinkthrottle.
Fizz couldn’t face the thought of going back there, but his heart was pounding, his lungs were bursting and his legs were aching. Up ahead was a corner and he told himself if he could only reach that and get round it first, then maybe he’d escape for good. Maybe there’d be somewhere to hide, to duck in and dodge the men. Maybe they’d lose them and the men would just give up and go back empty-handed.
He ran.
And the corner came and he was just about to turn it when he felt a hand grab his collar, and he closed his eyes and wished he was home with his mum and dad and the rest of the circus, wished that this day had just been a bad dream. But he felt the collar of his shirt tug at his neck as a second hand grabbed his arm and he knew that this wasn’t any sort
of dream, except perhaps the uncomfortable and unpleasant sort known as a nightmare. He was captured. His escape attempt had failed at the last corner.
When a story stops, just at the most exciting bit and you have to wait (for any length of time) before you find out what happens, it’s called a ‘cliff-hanger’. Back in the old days, not just before the internet, but before people had televisions at home even, kids used to go to the cinema on a Saturday morning and they’d watch ‘serial adventures’. These would always stop at the most exciting moment, usually when the hero was dangling by his fingertips off a cliff and there was no chance of escape or rescue, and all the kids would be sure to spend their penny (or however much the cinema cost back then) the following week, just to find out what happens. And thus was born ‘the cliff-hanger’. (It was catchier than the ‘tied-to-the-train-tracks-just-as-the-3.47-to-Dodge-City-is-due-to-come-round-the-corner-er’ which was the other name they tried.)
Which is a long way of saying, do read Chapter Ten to find out what happens to Fizz and Kevin. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
Chapter Ten
in which an escape is scuppered and in which some home truths come to light
Even as Kevin and Fizz wriggled and argued and pleaded with their captors they found themselves being marched back to the Stinkthrottles’ house. As far as Frank and Tommy (the two builders who’d caught them) were concerned, there was a poor little old lady up the way shouting that she’d been robbed, and here were two lads, with torn and grubby clothes, and muck all over their hands and faces, running away. It was pretty obvious what was going on. (I don’t think you can blame the builders.)
‘But we didn’t do anything,’ Fizz shouted, desperately trying to get free from the hand that gripped his shirt. ‘She’s mad! You’ve got to believe us! You’ve got to help us!’
Fizzlebert Stump Page 8
