He began to panic. How much time did he have left?
Hamish pulled and pulled at his hand.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Come on!’
But his hand wouldn’t budge. Not an inch. Not a squinch. Not a squiddly-dinch.
This was bad. This was awful. If the Pause ended and Madame Cous Cous caught Hamish like this, what on earth would she do? How would he explain suddenly appearing in her shop with his hand stuck in a jar of sweets? And so, with growing terror, he pulled, and he pulled, and he squeezed at his wrist, and finally . . .
. . . the glass bottle SHOT off his hand with the mightiest POP! and flew through the air. It bounced off a shelf and knocked all the other glass bottles to the floor with a SMASH and a CRASH! It landed on another shelf and knocked all those bottles off too! Bottle after bottle of strange and unusual sweets CLATTERED to the ground. Dundee Drizzle Balls rolled all over the place, bashing into Italian Candied Prawns. A bag of Mexican Chilli Sherbet fell to the floor and went off like an enormous smoke bomb.
And Madame Cous Cous just stood there, in the middle of her sneeze, like nothing was happening at all.
The place was an utter, frightful, dreadful, awe-inspiring MESS!
And then . . .
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!
The Explorer’s alarm was going off!
The world was about to start again! He had to go!
‘I’m sorry, Madame Cous Cous!’ Hamish shouted. ‘I’m so sorry!’
And out of the shop he ran, grabbing a small bag of Japanese Jellied Fish-Shavings that was lying on top of the mess as he went. At least his first Pause exploration hadn’t been a complete disaster! He jumped back on the scooter and swung it around. At a million miles an hour he raced back down the high street to Slackjaw’s Motors, bouncing over speed bumps and clanking back to the ground. He jumped off the bike, took the keys out and shoved them back in Mr Slackjaw’s hand.
He ran back to his position in front of the town clock and put his feet in the chalk-marks.
He’d done it!
He was back in place just as the world was about to start again!
Right now!
. . .
Any second . . . now!
. . .
Okay, not then . . . but now!
. . .
. . . Now?
But nothing changed at all.
Hamish caught his breath and glanced quickly at his watch. What?
Seven minutes and nineteen seconds.
Seven minutes and twenty seconds.
Had he got it wrong? Was the stopwatch broken?
It was then he heard something else. Something he had not noticed before. A bigger, deeper, louder tick . . . tick . . . tick.
The town clock above him was still working. It showed exactly the same time as The Explorer. So the town clock was not affected by the Pause either. That’s why it always seems to run fast, Hamish thought, because, just like The Explorer, the Starkley clock kept going when all the other clocks stopped!
Hamish started to sweat. Why wasn’t the world starting again?
He waited and waited.
Eight minutes and twenty-six seconds.
Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds . . . twenty-eight . . . twenty-nine . . .
Had he broken the world, like he’d broken the sweet shop?
And then Hamish spotted something.
A blackbird, just like the one he’d seen in his garden that night.
Its wings were spread and it was just centimetres from a shop window. Its little face looked scared. The world had stopped just as the bird was about to smash into the glass. That poor little guy – he would never survive when everything started again.
Eight minutes and thirty-five seconds.
What could Hamish do? Could he save the bird? What if the world started again before he’d done it?
Hamish knew he had to act fast. So he dashed away from the safety of his chalk footprints. He ran to the butcher’s across the road – they had the stepladder out so they could wash the windows.
Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
Hamish dragged the ladder to underneath the blackbird and he quickly clambered up, then gently turned the bird around so it was facing away from the window. He tenderly stroked its neck, just once, then checked The Explorer.
Eight minutes and fifty-nine seconds . . .
Things could Unpause at any moment. Hamish had to get back into position! He left the ladder where it was and ran straight back to his chalk footprints.
Nine minutes and seven seconds.
Nine minutes and eight seconds.
Nine minutes and nine seconds . . .
The world began again.
Cars. Cats. People.
‘OOOH!’ he heard, as Astrid’s bubblegum popped.
‘AAAATCHOOOO!’ he heard, from the sweet shop down the road.
CLABANG! he heard, as the exhaust pipe fell off the Vespa and rolled around on the ground. Mr Slackjaw rubbed his head in confusion as the man who was about to buy it put his hands on his hips and walked away.
‘OI! WHO’S NICKED MY LADDER?’ yelled the butcher.
‘Windy today, Hamish!’ said old Mr Picklelips, putting his hat back on his head.
But Hamish didn’t reply.
All he could think was that the Pause was getting longer. Nine minutes and nine seconds. What did that mean?
Just then, Madame Cous Cous ran out of her shop, waving her stick and holding her bright red face in one hand.
‘I SNEEZED and all my blimmin’ SWEETS fell over!’ she barked, mad as a dog.
And somewhere far above that blackbird flapped away, safe.
It turned its head just once as it disappeared into the distance and only to look at Hamish.
Hamish could hardly sleep that night.
His head was too full of possibilities.
How. Awesome. Was. This!
If the Pause was getting longer then one day it might be long enough for him to have some real fun. Anything-he-liked fun!
He could jump in a Ferrari and drive it all the way to Paris without anyone stopping him to ask why a ten-year-old was driving a Ferrari or where his passport was!
He could learn how to fly a helicopter and take a tour of the Grand Canyon! He could slip inside Buckingham Palace! He could tickle the Pope!
He could wander about in London Zoo and climb inside the cages with the animals! He could see whatever he wanted – China! Singapore! Liechtenstein!
He could build a giant chocolate egg and spend a whole day eating his way out of it!
Okay, that one was a bit weird, but the point is, Hamish could do anything he wanted if the Pauses lasted long enough. The world was brilliant. He needed to make plans!
Unfortunately, little did he know it . . . but, somewhere across town, someone had it in for poor old Hamish Ellerby.
And that someone had plans of his own.
Oh, No, It’s Grenville Bile!
It is time we talked about Grenville Bile.
To be honest, I’ve been putting it off for as long as possible, because no one really wants to talk about Grenville Bile. But he’s about to play a bigger role in Hamish’s life, so let’s just bite the Bile bullet.
Deep down, like all bullies, Grenville Bilious Bile was lonely.
He had no brothers or sisters. His dad was quiet as a mouse and spent most of his days reading the paper in the Queen’s Leg, trying to keep out of the way of Grenville’s mum, the Postmaster.
The rumour was Mrs Bile hadn’t always been fearsome. Some of the grown-ups claimed they could remember when she seemed quite a kindly soul, organising raffles to raise money for new school footballs, or making sandwiches for old people who’d already eaten.
That certainly wasn’t the case any more.
Tubitha Bile was awful.
Hamish had noticed that every single weekend of the year so far, Grenville had been trailing after his mother and doing all the chores she couldn’t
be bothered with.
Like:
- Polishing her peanuts so that each one was as smooth and peanutty as possible.
- Using a very tiny comb to brush all the wiry hair on her moles.
And worst of all . . .
- Degreasing the chairs where her oily, boily bottom had been.
But Grenville was greatly rewarded for such tireless work. He would always show off about all the things his mum had bought him. All you had to do was mention a new toy you had and up he’d pop, from behind a bush, to say: ‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got the whole set at home!’
Grenville had the whole set of Super Action Rascals.
He was allowed to download any film he wanted.
He had all the latest video games, even the ones you had to be eighteen to play. He had every single football kit of every single football club in the land. He had a PlayStation, an Xbox, an iPad, a laptop, six walkie-talkies, two radio-controlled cars and a life-sized model of a raccoon. Grenville certainly seemed to have it all. But would he share any of it? Not on your nelly. And no one ever went round to his house to play with any of it either. Not even Robin, who loved raccoons.
The Postmaster was very firm:
NO KIDS ALLOWED.
Everyone in Starkley feared the Postmaster. It wasn’t just the way she lunked around, scowling at everybody. Nor was it her deep, gargly voice, or the way she tossed her cigar butts at cats.
No. People were scared of her, because she was the gatekeeper to the post office – and she ran it exactly as she pleased.
The Postmaster had no time for other people’s rules. It was down to how she was feeling as to whether or not you got your post every day. Which meant that she decided whether you got your birthday money from your Auntie Freda, or that parcel from your grandma in Australia, or anything anyone sent you at all.
If she decided to be kind, you might – might! – get your presents.
But if she’d seen you walking too close to her car, or throwing sticks at a tree to get your frisbee out, or pulling your sister’s hair, or standing on a chair to reach the biscuits your mum puts in the very top cupboard . . . then forget about it. You’ll never see those presents. They’ll mysteriously disappear. ‘LOST IN THE POST!’ she’ll shout at your mum and dad, slamming down the iron grill and retreating to the cup of coffee that’s turned her teeth dark brown all these years.
(Incidentally, the Postmaster makes a lot of money selling things on eBay, although no one knows where she gets all that stuff from.)
Even the grown-ups of Starkley would find their post was ‘lost’ if they angered her. Poor old Mr Picklelips hadn’t had a letter since Christmas, and all because his nose sometimes did a little whistle the Postmaster found annoying.
Well, all this had quite an effect on Grenville.
His mum’s bad moods transferred straight to him. And so did a lot of her power in town. People didn’t want to annoy Grenville for fear of annoying the Postmaster and this made him feel untouchable.
The butcher gave him free sausages.
The funny little man in the supermarket let him choose any comics he wanted.
Madame Cous Cous never once hit him with a stick.
He was allowed to wear his Mexican wrestling mask to school any time he liked.
And Scratch and Mole would do anything he asked of them.
And that, of course, was the problem. Now that Scratch and Mole were off school, Grenville found himself lonelier than ever.
Maybe that makes you feel sorry for him.
Well, don’t! Stop that right now!
Grenville Bile is the biggest jackwagon in Starkley! Thundering about the place in his ‘Too Cool For School’ T-shirt, knocking over bins and switching signs around so that people who want to go to the supermarket end up in the swimming pool and people who want to go to the swimming pool end up walking around the supermarket in their swimming trunks!
But, like a gangster without any ‘associates’ to distract him, Grenville was bored.
Before the girls had gone, they’d told him that Hamish had knocked them over. They were running at him, they said, and he managed to get behind them. They had no idea how. They said they thought he was magic.
Grenville didn’t believe in magic. And he didn’t appreciate his associates being disrespected.
You don’t disrespect associates of Grenville Bile.
He knew he had to put Hamish Smellerby back in his place.
The Terrible News
Well, I’m glad we got that over with. Let’s get back to Hamish, eh?
For the last twenty-four hours, Hamish had been working on his Pause Survival Kit (or PSK as he’d decided to call it).
Right now it was all kept in a long metal tin of chocolate Mustn’tgrumbles his mum had finished.
And inside . . .
He had decided to keep his PSK at the bottom of his schoolbag until the next Pause. And he’d make sure he was always wearing The Explorer.
He knew it was so important to be ready. But he also knew that, since all the chaos he’d accidentally caused during the last Pause, he had to be careful. He couldn’t change too much about the world while it had stopped, because people would begin to really notice. The whole town would start to question what was going on – and Hamish didn’t want to spoil things. Something magic was happening in Starkley and for some reason he was right at the centre of it.
If his dad was around, he’d have told him all about the Pause. His dad always had time for him. They’d spend those long evenings playing Boggle and talking about all his many adventures. If anyone knew what was going on with the Pause, Hamish reckoned it would be his dad. As great as Mum and Jimmy were, there was nothing quite like talking to Dad.
The night his dad hadn’t come home – the night of Boxing Day – Hamish had still thought it was all going to be okay. His dad had only popped out to buy crisps and a tub of ice cream, because Star Wars was on and he said he wanted the boys to watch it with him. No one had batted an eyelid when he hadn’t come back an hour later.
‘He must have bumped into someone,’ said Hamish’s mum, nodding to herself.
But then it was two hours.
And then the film started.
‘You keep watching, chickens,’ said Hamish’s mum, getting up to go to the kitchen, where she rang Dad’s mobile over and over and over again.
Hamish had stayed up for hours that night, with his face pressed against the window.
No one ever found Dad’s car. He’d simply vanished.
Hamish thought again of the police that had arrived at school to fetch Scratch and Mole. The police had come to his house on Boxing Day evening too and he remembered the endless phone calls his mum had made to anyone who might know anything at all. For days afterwards, Hamish had cycled round Starkley on his bike, checking every alleyway and looking through as many windows as he could, just in case.
Mum was right about Jimmy too. He had just closed up that night. He’d stopped wanting to hang out with Hamish as much. He didn’t want to play two-player games on the Xbox any more. He didn’t want to play with any of the Christmas presents he’d got. Jimmy seemed to just grow up overnight.
Hamish’s mum had made him go and talk to a woman about his ‘feelings’ in the end. Sometimes his mum and Jimmy came along too, though Mum had to work much longer hours now that Dad was gone. The woman had made them all agree that they had to make a decision just to carry on and not look back.
Hamish supposed there would always be hope, at least. And at least hope was something.
Anyway, now he had something to distract him.
Now he had the Pause.
‘Hamish!’ shouted his mum from downstairs. ‘I’ve got so much paperwork still to do! Will you run to the shops for me?’
Inside Shop Til You Pop, Hamish handed over the £5 note his mum had given him for a new tin of Mustn’tgrumbles, six eggs and a cauliflower. He collected his change, said thank you and walked straight out again, ready to
jump on his bike and cycle back home.
He noticed Mr Slackjaw had repaired the beautiful blue Vespa he’d used the other day. The garage owner had been very confused about how it had ended up in such a state, but now it was spick and span and back out in front of the shop.
Hamish tied his plastic shopping bag to his handlebar and was about to set off when . . .
‘THERE HE IS, that little pinhead!’
Grenville Bile was pointing right at Hamish. He was sitting on his low black bike with the really high handles.
‘Stop right there, Smellerby!’
Grenville was surrounded by two fearsome new associates, sitting on their scuffed and battered old BMXs. Hamish recognised them at once. These were the rattiest, nastiest kids from St Autumnal’s. Grenville had outsourced the job to another school!
One of them was Lurgie Ting. He was enormously tall. Some people said he could already get into nightclubs even though he was only eleven. He wore leather gloves, because he thought it made him look tough.
It did.
The other one Hamish recognised as Roger Flemm. This kid was ninety-eight per cent snot. He was like a snail – you could pretty much follow his trail through town. Roger’s sleeves would creak and crack from all the dried nose juice he’d wipe from his nostrils every day. It was absolutely disgusting and so was he.
But what did Grenville Bile want with Hamish now?
Hamish decided he didn’t want to find out. He let go of the brakes, swung the bike around and began to furiously pedal away!
But Grenville wasn’t going to let him do that . . . no way!
‘GETTIM!’ he yelled, and when Hamish looked behind him, he saw Grenville, thundering towards him, two fat legs pounding away on his pedals. His tubby nemesis had even pulled on his green Mexican wrestling mask, which he only ever did when he really meant business, because he thought he looked just like his favourite Mexican wrestler in this – El Gamba!
‘Split up!’ yelled Grenville to Roger and Lurgie. ‘Head him off round the corner!’
Lurgie Ting went one way. Roger Flemm went the other. But Grenville stayed hot on Hamish’s heels.
Hamish and the WorldStoppers Page 5
