‘Biscuits, please! Don’t mess about.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t be silly!’
‘Ah. That’s me. Silly,’ said Biscuits. ‘Only I’m not the one stuck up to my neck in sand. You are. Even though you’re so clever.’
‘Oh, Biscuits. Don’t be like that. Look, get me out. It’s stopped being a joke. It’s not funny at all.’
‘I think it’s ever so funny. Bye, Tim!’ said Biscuits, and he started a lumbering run towards the rocks.
‘Biscuits! Look, you’re not frightening me. It’s just your stupid joke. It’s very very boring. So let’s get it over with, right?’
Biscuits didn’t seem to be listening. He started clambering over the rocks.
‘I don’t care a bit,’ I said. ‘I know you just want me to shout after you.’
He didn’t turn round.
He climbed to the top and then started going down the other side. Then he dropped down. And disappeared.
‘Biscuits!’ I shouted.
A gull screamed back at me overhead.
Biscuits had gone. I was all on my own. Stuck up to my neck on a deserted beach. My heart went bang bang bang inside my chest. The gull cried again, swooping low, so that I could see its cruel yellow beak.
I shut my eyes quick.
‘Go away!’ I said.
It was meant to be a shout but it came out as a feeble whisper.
I waited. My eyes were getting watery behind their lids. When I dared open them tears spilled down my cheeks. I blinked hard. I didn’t want Biscuits to catch me crying when he came back.
If he came back.
Of course he’d come back. Or Mum and Dad would come looking for me. Eventually.
There was nothing to cry about. The gull had flown away. It hadn’t mistaken me for a juicy fish. I was fine. I couldn’t come to any harm even though I was trapped.
I tried to calm myself by staring out to sea. Then I watched the waves. Was the tide coming in or out? I couldn’t remember! What if the tide was coming in – rapidly? Suppose it started lapping right around my sand prison, the waves splashing over my head?
I tried kicking madly and thrusting my arms up but the sand was set too hard. It wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t even make the tiniest crack in it now.
‘Oh Biscuits, come back!’ I cried. ‘Please! It’s not a joke any more! I’m frightened.’
Then I heard noises up above me, from right up on the clifftop. I tried to peer round to see who was there but my neck was so packed with sand that I couldn’t even swivel my head properly. I heard bumps and thumps. It sounded as if someone was climbing down the cliffs.
‘Is that you, Biscuits?’ I shouted.
Was this all part of his joke? I couldn’t believe he could have scooted up the path to the clifftop so quickly. And surely old Biscuits wouldn’t risk his neck climbing down the sheer cliff face? (Though he had been pretty good at abseiling.)
‘Biscuits?’ I yelled, as the sliding and slithering progressed downwards behind me.
Then I saw a head bob up from behind the rocks. It was munching on a chocolate bar.
‘Ha ha! I really got you worried, didn’t I?’ he yelled. ‘I didn’t really leave you, I just hid behind the rocks.’
‘Biscuits?’ I said. ‘Then who . . .?’
I tried to crane round again.
I saw Biscuits stop and look behind me. His hand stopped in mid air, holding the chocolate. His mouth stayed open and empty.
I knew it was seriously bad news for Biscuits to forget to eat. My heart was banging to bursting point now. I had a sudden terrible premonition.
Someone started to give triumphant Tarzan whoops as he got nearer and nearer. I could feel my trapped skin erupting in goosebumps.
Then I heard a thump thump as two very big boots jumped onto the sand.
I saw Biscuits mouth one terrible word.
Prickle-Head.
‘Aha! Who have we got here?’ he yelled triumphantly. ‘Fun time!’
Biscuits was still standing statue-still. Then he moved. I wouldn’t have blamed him for one minute if he’d clambered back over the rocks to the other beach. I think I might have done. And he could always say he was rushing off to get my dad.
But Biscuits didn’t run away and really abandon me. He started running towards me, spade at the ready, all set to dig me out and rescue me.
But he didn’t have time. Prickle-Head got to me first.
‘What’s this weird little squashy thing in the sand?’ he said. ‘Is it a little jellyfish?’ He put his great boot right on top of my head, pressing down hard enough to hurt.
‘Get off!’ I said.
‘Oooh! The jellyfish can talk! Yuck, it really is a jellyfish, there’s slime and snot all over its face.’
I sniffed desperately.
‘Oh my, it’s not a jellyfish at all, it’s the little Mummy’s boy. What’s happened to its weedy wimpy little body then? Someone’s chopped its head off. Well, it’s no use to anyone. Might as well use it as a football, eh?’ He took his boot off my head and took aim.
‘Don’t you dare kick him!’ Biscuits yelled, and he started whirling the spade in a threatening manner.
But Prickle-Head was bigger and quicker. He dodged, pushed and grabbed.
Biscuits ended up on his bottom.
Prickle-Head ended up with the spade.
‘Aha! It’s my turn to play sandcastles now,’ said Prickle-Head. ‘Here’s a nice castle. Ready-made, couldn’t be better. Hey, look at my castle, Rick.’
There was another thump on the sand behind me. Prickle-Head had reinforcements.
Pinch-Face came running into my view. He laughed and aimed a kick at my head. He missed – but only just. I tried to dodge and jarred all down my back.
‘Yeah, I don’t like that wet blobby bit on top of the castle. Spoils it, doesn’t it? So shall I pat it smooth, eh?’ Prickle-Head held the spade high and then brought it down hard and fast.
I screamed.
Biscuits leapt up and tried to rugby tackle Prickle-Head. The spade swung and landed with a loud bang on the tightly-packed sand.
‘Get off, Fatboy,’ said Prickle-Head, and he punched Biscuits in the stomach.
Biscuits made a sad little ‘oooof’ sound, and sank into the sand like a burst balloon.
‘Now, let’s play Hit the Head,’ said Prickle-Head, grabbing the spade again.
‘Sounds like fun, Boss,’ said Pinch-Face.
‘Look, if you really hit me with that you could easily kill me,’ I said desperately.
‘Ooooh! Mummy’s boy is getting really scared now. I bet he’s wetting his little panties,’ said Prickle-Head.
‘Why do you want to be so hateful? I haven’t done anything to you,’ I said, snuffling hard.
‘It’s fun,’ said Prickle-Head. ‘Right. I’ll take aim.’ He raised the spade high above my head. ‘And then I’m going to go WHACK!’
‘Hey, Boss,’ said Pinch-Face. ‘You’re not really going to?’
‘What? Are you chicken or something?’
‘Of course not. It’s just like the cissy said. You could really smash his head in,’ Pinch-Face said. ‘You’re just kidding, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’ said Prickle-Head. ‘You just wait and see. Right. One, two, three . . .’
He waved the spade above his head, his face contorted with effort. I stared up into his eyes. I didn’t know if he was really going to do it or not. Maybe he didn’t even know either.
‘Please don’t!’ I begged.
But that just made him grin.
‘Ready steady GO!’
‘Hey! You! Stop that! Get away from my boy!’
It was Dad, over at the rocks, scrambling down, the other spade in his hand.
Prickle-Head waved the spade in mid-air.
‘Hey, Boss, we’d better scarper,’ said Pinch-Face.
He started running.
Prickle-Head whirled the spade one last time and th
en threw it as far as he could. Then he ran too.
‘Oh, Tim!’ Biscuits gasped, still rolled up in a ball clutching his stomach. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, Biscuits!’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
We both felt very wrong indeed. I cried a bit. And so did Biscuits. And then Dad got to us and dug me out, and rubbed Biscuits’s tummy, and gave us both a big hug.
‘I couldn’t believe my eyes!’ he said. ‘Thank goodness I decided to bring you the other spade. How dare those boys behave like that!’ He waved his fist at Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face who were scrambling up the cliff.
‘You stupid bullying little thugs! And you’re mad to be climbing that cliff. You’ll break your necks – and it’ll serve you right.’
Prickle-Head yelled a very rude word at Dad.
‘Just wait till I find out exactly who that lad is,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve a good mind to go to the local police. That wasn’t childish rough play – that was atrocious bullying. Imagine burying you in the sand like that, Tim! How did he do it? Didn’t you struggle?’
I hesitated.
‘Mm. I actually buried Tim in the sand,’ said Biscuits.
‘You did, Biscuits?’ said Dad. ‘Good Heavens! Why? Tim’s your friend.’
‘I know. It was just a silly joke. I wasn’t really going to leave him like that. I just hid for a minute. But then Prickle-Head came down the cliffs—’
‘Biscuits tried to stop him,’ I said. ‘He was very brave.’
‘It was still my fault you were stuck there and couldn’t run away from him,’ said Biscuits. ‘What’s your mum going to say when she finds out?’
We all three thought about Mum.
‘Ah,’ said Dad. ‘Well. Seeing as there’s no lasting harm done . . . shall us men keep quiet about it? We don’t want to worry your mum, Tim. You know what she’s like.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Yes!’ said Biscuits.
‘So, if we dust you both down, and mop you up a bit, Mum won’t need to know. But I’m still in two minds whether to go to the police or not. Or if I could track down where the boy is staying I could have a serious word with his father.’
We saw Prickle-Head that evening when we went to a fun fair with Kelly and Kelly’s mum and Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave and Kelly’s little brother Dean and Kelly’s baby brother Keanu.
Prickle-Head was there with his mum and his dad and several pricklet brothers and sisters. They all looked almost as fierce and frightening as their big brother Prickle-Head. His mum looked fierce and frightening too. She was shouting at the older children. Then Prickle-Head’s dad whacked them hard about the head. He gave Prickle-Head a couple of extra smacks. Prickle-Head’s dad looked far far far fiercer and more frightening than Prickle-Head.
Dad decided that he wouldn’t have a serious word with him after all.
Chapter Seven
KELLY WAS BARELY talking to me. Biscuits had told her about our last desperate encounter with Prickle-Head.
‘You took Biscuits to our beach?’ Kelly cried indignantly. ‘You rat. You total traitorous flea-ridden slimy-tailed rotten rat!’
She kept repeating this, with yet more ratty embellishments, all the while we told her about our narrow escape.
‘Do shut it, Kelly. You don’t own the beach,’ said Biscuits. ‘Don’t you realize, I got beaten to a pulp and Tim practically got his head bashed in.’
‘The way Prickle-Head was holding the spade it could have sliced off the top of my head just like a boiled egg!’ I said dramatically.
Kelly refused to be impressed.
‘If I’d caught you there with Biscuits I’d have jumped up and down on your head myself,’ she said darkly.
She waved Theresa Troll in the air and hit me hard before I had time to duck. It was surprising how much a plastic troll could hurt.
‘Ouch!’ I said, reeling. I had to try very very hard not to cry.
‘Serves you right,’ said Kelly. ‘Just be glad Theresa’s not a sharp spade. I’m not like this stupid Prickle-Head you keep going on about. I don’t miss when I take aim.’
She stalked off, her pony-tail switching furiously right and left.
‘Wow!’ said Biscuits. ‘Old Killer-Kelly, eh? I dropped you in it there all right, didn’t I, Super-Tim?’
‘Too right, Biscuits-Boy,’ I said, rubbing my head ruefully.
I sighed. At least I was back being friends with Biscuits. I hoped that Kelly might have got over her mega-huff by tomorrow. I so wanted us all to be friends.
‘What’s up, dear?’ said Mum, coming and putting her arm round me. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky. How’s your poor old eye? It’s not still smarting, is it? It looks a bit watery.’
‘It’s fine, Mum, really,’ I said.
‘It’s silly, everyone thinks sandy beaches are so safe – and yet they can cause all sorts of problems,’ said Mum.
‘I know,’ I said. I wondered what Mum would say if she knew of my problems in the sand with Prickle-Head.
‘I’d be happy to give the beach a miss tomorrow,’ said Mum, keeping her voice down. ‘We could go for a car trip, maybe explore another castle. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Tim? And Biscuits will go along with that so long as we feed him every five minutes.’ Mum sniffed.
‘You bet I will,’ said Biscuits, who had sharp ears.
‘So it’s all settled,’ said Mum. ‘We’ll go on a car trip, just the four of us.’
‘What’s that?’ said Dad, coming over. ‘Not tomorrow. It’s the Caravan Site Carnival Day and we’ve all been invited, remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mum. ‘But Tim and Biscuits want to go for a car ride, don’t you boys?’
‘I’d sooner go to a carnival,’ said Biscuits. I saw the dreamy look in his eyes. Carnivals meant ice-creams and candy floss and hot dogs.
‘What about you, Tim?’ said Mum.
I hesitated. I hated to upset her. But if I didn’t go to this Carnival Day I knew I’d upset Kelly even more. I rubbed the sore place on my forehead where Theresa Troll had clouted me.
‘I’d like to go to the Carnival Day too,’ I said.
It was a BIG mistake.
The moment we got to the caravan site and saw the ropes and flags set out across the beach I realized something terrible.
There were going to be sports.
I am the least sporty boy ever.
‘Great!’ said Dad, reading the poster. ‘There’s going to be all sorts of races. Sprinting, relay, three-legged, sack race, egg and spoon. You boys must have a go.’
‘It’ll be just for people staying at the caravan site,’ I said quickly. ‘We can’t enter, it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Don’t be such a wimp, Tim,’ Dad said sharply. ‘Of course you can enter.’
‘But I don’t want to!’ I said.
‘Nor do I, actually, said Biscuits loyally.
‘There! We’d have all been much better off if we’d gone for a car ride,’ said Mum. ‘In fact, why don’t we still go? This carnival doesn’t look very exciting. There aren’t any craft or bric-a-brac stalls, and the tombola prizes don’t look much cop. There aren’t even many food stalls.’
‘Yes, let’s go for a car ride,’ said Biscuits.
Dad looked exasperated.
‘But all Kelly’s family are expecting us.’
‘I think we’ve seen a little too much of Kelly’s family this holiday,’ Mum muttered.
‘Yes, I like it best when it’s just us,’ said Biscuits.
Mum blinked at Biscuits – and then offered him a piece of chocolate out of her handbag to cement their new alliance.
‘Tim, you want to see Kelly, don’t you?’ said Dad.
I dithered. Perhaps there wasn’t much point seeing Kelly at the moment, seeing as she wasn’t speaking to me. It would be a bit like watching telly with the sound turned down.
‘Well . . .’
I heard someone shouting through a megaphone.
‘Com
e and enter for the first race of the day, folks!’
‘I want to go on a car trip,’ I said.
Mum smiled.
Biscuits smiled.
Dad frowned. But it was three against one so we turned round and started walking away from the caravan site.
‘Hey, Tim! TIM! TIM!!’
It was Kelly. She was speaking to me again. She didn’t need a megaphone. She had her volume turned right up to maximum force.
‘Pretend you haven’t heard her,’ said Biscuits.
It was not a sensible suggestion. People covered their ears the length of the Welsh coast and said ‘That’s Kelly!’ Cattle in the meadows were mooing ‘That’s Kelly!’ Sheep up in the mountains were baaing ‘That’s Kelly!’ Dolphins and whales way out in the ocean were spouting ‘That’s Kelly!’ Little green men in flying saucers were twitching their antennae and mumbling in Martian ‘That’s Kelly!’
I turned. We all turned.
Kelly came charging up to us.
‘Where are you going? The carnival’s over on the clifftop. Come on, they’ve just announced the first race. It’s the under-five fifty-steps toddle and our Dean’s going to walk it, you watch!’
‘I’m sure he will, dear. But we were actually wondering whether to give all these races a miss,’ said Mum.
‘You can’t. I’ve entered all of you,’ said Kelly.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You’re doing the three-legged race with me, Tim. Come on in case it’s next,’ Kelly commanded.
‘That’s it, Kelly, you get this lazy lot organized,’ said Dad.
‘I’ve entered you in the dads’ race. And there’s a knobbly knees contest too. You’re down for that and all,’ said Kelly.
‘Knobbly knees!’ said Dad, looking down his shorts at his legs. ‘I haven’t got knobbly knees, young woman.’
‘Well, there’s a hairiest leg contest too. Would you sooner go in for that?’ said Kelly.
‘Cheek!’ said Dad.
‘I told you those shorts were a mistake,’ said Mum, sniggering. ‘It’ll be funny if you win!’
‘You might win too,’ said Kelly, smiling at her.
Mum blinked. ‘Kelly,’ she said, very slowly and ominously. ‘What have you entered me for?’
‘Well, the mums’ race, of course. And the Fabulous Forty-Plus Beauty Contest.’
Buried Alive! Page 8
