Super Creepy Camp

by Barry Hutchinson

  Contents

  Chapter 1 – The Draw

  Chapter 2 – Mum’s Big Announcement

  Chapter 3 – Beaky’s Blog

  Chapter 4 – The Assembly

  Chapter 5 – The Contest Begins

  Chapter 6 – One-Nil

  Chapter 7 – Arguments

  Chapter 8 – The Big Speech

  Chapter 9 – Into the Woods

  Chapter 10 – Upwardly Mobile

  Chapter 11 – Up a Tree

  Chapter 12 – The Raid

  Chapter 13 – Monsters Attack!

  More Books About Beaky!

  Copyright

  “So,” said my best mate, Theo, hiking up the steps beside me, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, stepping aside to let a group of more enthusiastic pupils pass us on the way to class. “Did it hurt?”

  “Hilarious,” said Theo. “But listen, you know how you can only tell the truth now?”

  “I had noticed,” I said. I’d been unable to tell a lie since a weird woman called Madame Shirley stuck me in an even weirder truth-telling machine in the back of her shop a few weeks ago.

  “Well, I’ve thought of all the things you’ve told me over the years that I reckon might not be true.”

  “All the things?” I said doubtfully.

  “Well, OK, not all of them, but some of them,” said Theo. We rounded a corner on to the science floor, then headed up the next set of stairs. “And I think this is the perfect time to find out if they’re actually true.”

  “I’ll save you the bother,” I said. “They probably aren’t.”

  “Number one,” said Theo, ignoring me. “Do you really have monkey DNA?”

  “No.”

  “Are your parents spies?”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “Either,” said Theo.

  “No.”

  “Did you really break your nose training for the Olympics?”

  “Yes!”

  Theo stopped. “What? No way!”

  “Yeah. I decided I was going to be an Olympic gymnast and tried to do a backflip,” I said. “It didn’t end well.”

  We carried on up the stairs. “I mean, if you’re asking was I hand-picked by Team GB to represent the country at the Olympic Games like I told you I’d been? No. Did I knee myself in the face while attempting acrobatics in my living room? Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Smooth,” said Theo. “I’d have loved to have been there to see that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You could have called the ambulance.”

  We arrived on the English corridor and stepped up the pace. We had spent months perfecting our technique for getting between classes, figuring out the exact speed we could walk so we arrived late enough to miss a little bit of each lesson but not late enough to get into trouble.

  “What do you think Doddsy has got in store for us today, then?” Theo said.

  I puffed out my cheeks and shrugged. “An English lesson, probably,” I said.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” said Theo, then his eyes widened. “Wait! No! It’s today, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “Of course it’s today. Technically, I suppose, it’s always today...”

  “No, I mean today’s the day!” Theo said. “Today’s the day they draw the names for the Wagstaffe Cup!”

  The Wagstaffe Cup – or, to give it its full, completely idiotic title, the Winston and Watson Wagstaffe Cup of Competitive Chummery – was a cup awarded to the winner of an inter-school contest between our school and nearby Foxley Hill School. Every year, a Year Seven class was chosen – this year it was ours – then five pupils were randomly selected to take part. Today was the day the draw for the team was being made.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s a pretty big class. What are the chances of us being picked?”

  “Tiny,” Theo agreed. He smiled. “Let’s go find out who’s unlucky enough to make the team.”

  Wayne Lawson was looking at me. This was not good. Wayne looking at you is never positive news, especially if he’s looking at you the way he was looking at me – eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, mouth curved into a nasty-looking smirk.

  It had only been a couple of weeks since I’d been partnered with Wayne on the school trip to Learning Land, after the teachers had somehow got it into their heads that I was bullying him and that spending time together would help us become friends. In fact, Wayne was the one bullying me and over the next few hours I’d only narrowly avoided being pummelled into a lumpy paste by his massive fists.

  Luckily I’d managed to expose him as the two-faced sneaky bully he is, while also showing everyone on the trip video footage of him being frightened almost to the point of crying by a man dressed as a clown. To say he was looking for an opportunity to get his own back was a bit of an understatement.

  Unbelievably, Wayne had managed to avoid getting into trouble by giving his dad – who happened to be our head teacher – some sob story about feeling like he wasn’t getting enough parental attention. He’d told him that his behaviour at Learning Land had been a cry for help, which probably sent his dad into panic mode. Mr Lawson already had one son in prison and the last thing he would’ve wanted was for Wayne to end up there, too. Although, to be fair, it’s probably where he belongs.

  So, ever since Learning Land, all the teachers had been sucking up to Wayne even more than usual and basically letting him get away with murder.

  Not literally, of course, although I wouldn’t put it past him.

  This meant Wayne was getting all kinds of special treatment – like right now, when he was being allowed to draw out the names of the pupils taking part in the Wagstaffe Cup. Mrs Dodds had wanted to be the one to do the draw but Mr Lawson had told her not to be so selfish.

  While Mrs Dodds sat behind her desk, trying not to look annoyed, Mr Lawson took a small rectangle of paper from Wayne’s hand and unfolded it. A flicker of irritation flitted across his face as he read the name aloud.

  “Dylan Malone.”

  I glanced around the class, looking for the poor, unfortunate soul who’d just had his name drawn. It was only when I saw everyone staring at me that the words filtered through into my brain.

  “Wait. That’s me,” I said. “I’m Dylan Malone.”

  A ripple of laughter passed around the class.

  Mr Lawson tutted his annoyance. “Well, that doesn’t exactly bode well for the contest, does it?” he said. “If our first team member isn’t even sure of his own name.”

  “It’s just that everyone usually calls me ‘Beaky’, sir,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, well...”

  “Because of my massive nose.”

  “Yes, thank you, Beaky,” said Mr Lawson. He shook his head and quickly corrected himself. “Dylan. Thank you, Dylan. I think we get the picture.”

  Another rumble of laughter went around the class. Mr Lawson twisted his face into the boggle-eyed stare he does when he’s trying to look scary. He calls it the “hawk-eye” but it makes him look more like a constipated pigeon, if anything.

  “Right, that’s enough!” he yelled. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you just how important the Wagstaffe Cup is to the school. It is not a laughing matter. What is it not?”

  “A laughing matter,” mumbled the class in unison.

  It might not have been a laughing matter but when it came to the annual contest with Foxley Hill School, our school was pretty much a laughing stock. Apparently no one had told Mr Lawson that, though.

  The contest had originally been set up by the heads of our school and Foxley Hill, who were identical – and highly competitive – twin brothers. They were also, by all accounts, completely mad. />
  The original rule book for the Winston and Watson Wagstaffe Cup of Competitive Chummery was eight-hundred pages long, written in Latin and – if rumours were to be believed – bound in guinea-pig fur. The list of rules included one about pupils not being allowed to have more than two legs each and six pages dedicated to acceptable sock colours for competitors.

  Over the years, most of the rules had been chucked out and the ones that were left were only a bit mad, rather than stark raving bonkers.

  “For thirty years, a team of our Year Seven pupils has competed against a team from Foxley Hill School,” said the head grandly. “Once a year, over two days, we have matched wits, knowledge, strength, skill, speed and stamina, determined to be crowned victor!”

  Theo raised his hand. “And have we, sir?”

  “Have we what?”

  “Ever been crowned victor?”

  Theo knew full well what the answer to that question was. Everyone did.

  “Well, no, not as such,” admitted Mr Lawson. He rallied quickly. “Still, I have a good feeling about this year!”

  His eyes fell on me and he seemed to deflate a little. “Or I did have,” he muttered.

  “I shouldn’t be on the team, sir,” I said.

  Mr Lawson raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why not.”

  “Because I don’t want to be,” I said, completely truthfully. Completely truthfully was the only way I could say anything these days. I hadn’t been able to tell a single lie since exiting the truth-telling machine and believe me when I say it wasn’t for want of trying.

  Mr Lawson looked almost hopeful. “And you don’t want to be on the team because...?”

  “It’ll be rubbish and we’ll probably lose,” I said. “And because you have to spend the night in the woods and I’m scared there might be bears.”

  The head teacher shook his head. He looked almost as disappointed as I felt. “Not a good enough excuse, I’m afraid. Unfortunate as it is, I’ll have to keep you in.” He turned to his son. “Wayne, next name, please.”

  Wayne rummaged in an upturned hat and pulled out another neatly folded piece of paper. Mr Lawson took it and unfolded it.

  “Evie Green.”

  Across the room, Evie Green blinked in surprise. Most of the time, no one really noticed Evie because they were too busy looking at her glamorous best friend, Chloe, instead. Evie glanced over at me and half-smiled.

  “Cool,” she said.

  “OMG, I’m so glad it’s you and not me,” said Chloe. “Seriously, you have no idea how relieved I am right now. If I had to take part in that stupid contest, I’d die. I swear. I’d literally die.”

  “Chloe Donovan,” said Mr Lawson, taking the next name and reading it.

  Chloe immediately flopped forwards, her head landing on her desk with a thonk. For a moment, I thought she had actually died but then she let out a groan of frustration and sat up again. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll do the stupid contest, as long as I don’t have to do anything.”

  “You’ll have to do things,” sighed Mr Lawson, and Chloe’s head thumped on to the desk again.

  “Right, two more to go, let’s get a move on,” said the head, his dream of winning the cup for the first time fading rapidly.

  Wayne rummaged in the hat and pulled out two more slips of paper. “Theo,” said Mr Lawson, barely bothering to look up.

  “YES!” I cried, leaping out of my chair and throwing my hands into the air. The rest of the class, including Theo, stared at me. I cleared my throat. “I’m happy about this news,” I announced, then I sat down again.

  Mr Lawson unfolded the last piece of paper. “And... Wayne!” he said, sounding pleased for the first time since my name had been pulled out.

  “NO!” I cried, leaping out of my chair and throwing my hands in the air again. “This is terrible!”

  “Nonsense!” said Mr Lawson. “Wayne is one of the best athletes in the school. He’s the fastest runner in the year.”

  “Yeah, because he’s always chasing after people to beat them up,” I said. “Or, more recently, running in terror from clowns.”

  Wayne began to snarl at me, then immediately covered his hand with his mouth and put on a surprised look when his dad turned round. “I can’t believe I’m going to be on the team for the Wagstaffe Cup!” he said with a grin. “We won’t let you down, Dad!”

  Mr Lawson tried his best to look cheerful. “Well... You know, I think we might have a chance this year,” he said. “What do you think, Mrs Dodds?”

  Behind her desk, Mrs Dodds gave a sullen shrug. “Yeah, suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Mr Lawson, properly brightening now. “With Wayne’s physical prowess – not to mention his talent for spelling – Evie’s general knowledge and everyone else’s... Um...” He reached desperately for something positive to say about the rest of the group but fell short. “Other skills, I really do think we’ve got a very good chance of winning.”

  “Wow,” said Theo, leaning across to me. “And some people still think you’re the biggest liar in school.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird?” said Theo between mouthfuls of chicken baguette. It was lunchtime and we were wandering the school corridors, trying to avoid talking to anyone.

  It was the safest place to be, since I’d lost my ability to lie. Talking to people usually resulted in something bad happening, as I found it impossible to keep the truth in. If someone had a personal hygiene issue, for example, like B.O. or bad breath, I’d tell them. Loudly. Even if they were a teacher.

  Especially if they were a teacher.

  I’d humiliated myself more times than I could remember and humiliated Theo almost as many. He knew all about the truth-telling machine and, unlike everyone else I’d tried to tell, actually believed me.

  I’d stopped going to the canteen the day after the trip to Learning Land, when I’d accidentally proposed to Miss Gavistock the dinner lady in front of half the school. On bended knee and everything.

  Luckily Theo had rugby-tackled me to the floor then told everyone he’d dared me to do it for a laugh. I don’t know what I’d do without him, which is why I was so glad he was on the team for the Wagstaffe Cup.

  “Don’t I think what’s weird?” I asked.

  “The team.”

  “Well, Wayne’s weird, yeah. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying, actually.”

  Theo shook his head. “No, I mean ... look who’s on it. There’s you. Wayne is desperate to get you when there are no teachers around.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “So he can kick your head in,” Theo continued.

  “Yes! I know. No need to go on about it.”

  “Then there’s Chloe, who you reckon Wayne fancies.”

  I nodded. “I don’t reckon, I know.”

  “There’s no way Chloe would agree to take part without Evie, and – oh, what’s this? – she’s on the team, too. What a coincidence.”

  “So you’re saying Wayne fixed it? He deliberately rigged the team so we’d all be on it?” I said. “Why would he pick you, though?”

  Theo shrugged. “Probably for the quiz round. I’m pretty clever.”

  I burst out laughing. “No, it won’t be that.”

  “Hey! I know some stuff!” Theo protested.

  “You have a weird and, if I might say so, tragic knowledge of buses.”

  “Coaches,” Theo corrected.

  “Same thing,” I said.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Theo insisted.

  “And,” I continued, ignoring him, “you know more video-game cheat codes than anyone,” I said. “So, unless they’ve introduced an Xbox Coach Driver simulator quiz, I doubt that’s why he picked you.”

  Before we could discuss it any further, we turned a corner and there, dead ahead, was my sister, Jodie. She and a few of her friends were striding along the corridor towards us and Jodie didn’t look happy to see me at all. About five different expressions flitted across her face in the space of two seconds. The
y ranged from “unbridled rage” to “absolute terror” with a quick detour to “panicked confusion” somewhere along the way.

  “Quick, quick, the gobstopper!” Theo said.

  Frantically I rummaged in my pocket and took out a clingfilm-wrapped giant gobstopper. Jodie’s friends all clucked and chattered as the group swept towards us but Jodie just stared at me, her face turning red as it twitched and contorted through its range of emotions.

  Unwrapping the enormous candy ball, I shoved it into my mouth just as Jodie’s little tribe passed.

  “Hey, Beaky!” said one of Jodie’s friends.

  “Hrmff-ung,” I said, the gobstopper making it impossible to reply.

  Jodie looked relieved and even gave me a faint nod of acknowledgement as she passed, then – panic over – went back to chatting with her friends.

  As soon as they had gone, I spat the gobstopper back into the clingfilm and wrapped it up again.

  “Phew!” I breathed. “That was close.”

  Of all the people I’d embarrassed with my truth-telling, Jodie had come off worst. I’d turned some of her friends into mortal enemies, got her into trouble with Mr Lawson, and told several boys that she not only fancied them, but had made a horrifying sort of collage drawing of them, picking out her favourite bits of each and combining them into some weird Frankenstein’s monster.

  That last one, in particular, hadn’t gone down well.

  The gobstopper had been her idea. Whenever I saw her in school, I was under strict instructions to shove it in my mouth so I couldn’t speak. At first, I’d refused but when she’d promised to shove her fist in my mouth instead, I’d reluctantly given in.

  It worked, for the most part, although I did spend almost a full minute one day performing an elaborate mime in an attempt to let her friends know about a recent bout of diarrhoea she’d had. Luckily my miming skills leave a lot to be desired and they’d thought I was pretending to be a frightened chicken.