Two of the soldiers were in the trees with loaded guns and tranquilizer darts. The girls and the Sergeant had laid down twigs and leaves and then poured over the chloroform, while the Commander, James and Greg had tied the ropes around the foot of the trees, in hope of bringing the troll down.
About five minutes had passed with the Commander and everyone else waiting in anticipation to spring the trap when they heard the roar coming towards them. The roar was closely followed by the hurried footfalls of Jake and Brett running back to them. “Get ready, it’s coming,” yelled Jake. They jumped behind the trees and took cover with the girls as the troll came tearing down to the trap.
“Now!” yelled James and Greg as they pulled the ropes, which tangled around the hairy, wart-filled legs of the troll. The troll growled as he started to fall and tried to grab hold of a tree for support.
“Fire!” yelled Sergeant Black and the soldiers fired the darts into him. After a bit of a stumble, it fell into the chloroform, landing on its side. It roared and tried to get up, prompting the Commander to throw more bottles of chloroform to knock it out. Jake and Brett secured its head by wrapping bungee ropes around its greasy neck and attaching them to a thick oak tree. Greg and James, meanwhile, were roping its legs together when, all of a sudden, the troll roared, startling the four lads. The roar soon turned into a yelp and then silence as it succumbed to a deep, chloroform induced sleep.
“Hooooorraaah,” they all cheered, before all jumping as the troll let out the loudest trump.
“Jesus wept, I want to be sick,” grimaced Sergeant Black. Mollie, Cheryl and Jake were well ahead of him and already throwing up in some bracken, the odour of the troll making their eyes water.
*
The next day, Commander Durnham had just got off the phone to the Prime Minister after filling him in on the previous day’s events. In the end, not only did they capture the troll and the sabre-toothed tiger but also a flying beast, which Mollie had later catalogued as a banshee, and all of them had been impounded in makeshift cages and huts in the restricted area of the forest.
The Prime Minister was sending troops to build a top secret compound for the rehousing of all creatures at that location. When Jack had asked about the cost the PM’s reply had been, “We will blame it on the council tax.” It was to be a top-secret facility and Greg and the others were to be part of the team; Unit 171 – The Monster Hunters. When the PM needed to talk to other governments, the code word would be Môn strum Venator — the Latin for monster hunter. They were to be sent for training immediately. They would have the best weapons, vehicles and all the state-of-the-art technology there was to help keep the world safe from whatever else was out there.
*
Two months later, the Prime Minister was sat in his office and on his desk was a top-secret dossier. He opened it up and looked at it with a grin; it read:
UNIT 171: THE MONSTER HUNTERS:
Commander Jack Durnham U171MH 101
Sergeant Steven Black U171MH 102
Cadet Jake Birch UMH171 111
Cadet James Hall UMH171 112
Cadet Brett Hollis UMH171 113
Cadet Cheryl Hollis UMH171 114
Cadet Greg Polanski UMH171 115
Cadet Mollie Spindle UMH171 116
Next mission: Loch Ness, Scotland.
Bernie Broom’s Bubblebum Bottles
Dad walked in; 5.15 p.m. on the dot, black as coal (funny that seeing as he is a coal delivery man though, don’t you think?). Anyway, I was sat at the table in the kitchen diner, well, it’s kind of our lounge as well. Dad’s promised to replace the wall, you see, but I’d say that was 6 years, 4 months, 3 days, 10 hours, 45 minutes and 20 seconds ago, but I’m not one for being precise.
Dad walked into Mum’s clean washing, tripped over our dog Beetroot, put the kettle on and let out the biggest trump you’ve ever heard. He then sat down with his newspaper, not even noticing that my complexion had turned green from his recent bubblebum activity. Beetroot had nearly worn his claws down scratching at the back door in an attempt to get out of the stink. I looked at Dad (or Mr Broom to you) and he gave me a quick smile before burying his head in the newspaper. He was oblivious to me punching myself constantly in the nose, trying to stop the dreadful stink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the now steamed up mirror and my nose looked like a badly made jam sandwich.
I was about to ask Dad how his day had been when, not taking his eyes of his paper, he cocked his bottom slightly (and I mean slightly) to the left and let another trump out. Dad’s nostrils didn’t budge and he also took no notice of me now trying to stuff socks up my battered nose. My head nearly shook off with me shaking it in disbelief at Beetroot who yelped, growled and squeezed through the keyhole, all in one motion, and the keyhole had the key in it at that!
All of a sudden, Mum (or Mrs Broom to you) came in with some washing under her arm. She was wearing her faithful, full of holes pinny which buried her skinny frame. Her blonde hair surrounded by curlers and the smell (which by now had peeled three sheets of wallpaper off the wall) not bothering her. She put the washing down, looked at Dad and Dad looked up. They looked like they wanted to say something to each other, but something was stopping them. So Mum left the room again while Dad carried on with his paper. But I know what the problem is; we’re very poor, you see. Dad tries really hard, but what with debts after debts and him losing his job in a couple of days because of cutbacks there’s not much he can do.
Dad stood up; he’s a balding man with a thick moustache and he is plumpish. I take after him apart from no tash and a full head of brown, straggly hair. He went passed, rubbed my head and banged the boiler to turn the hot water on. He then trudged upstairs. I stood up and went to the window to see what Beetroot was doing, but unlike most dogs who bury their bones, he was burying himself!
A little later, I was doing the pots after tea, which because we are tight for money was fish finger, chips and peas. And I say fish finger because we only had one each. Mum had gone in the bath and in twenty minutes it would be Dad’s turn, then ten minutes after that it would finally be mine. Now, I don’t like bath time because we can only afford to have one bath between us, and tonight it was my turn for the mucky bath water.
When it was my turn I dragged my feet upstairs, trying to delay the experience. I stood over the tub and peered in at the water. It looked more like tar than bath water and even my rubber duck Nigel had sunk to the bottom.
I lay in the bath for quite some time and pondered how I could make things better for our family.
*
The next day, after school, I was in the back garden trying to dig Beetroot out of his hole when Dad came in from work, waved and went into the kitchen. As soon as Beetroot saw him he started to dig deeper.
I went into the shed and started rooting through all the stuff in there. In the corner, on the floor, were Dad’s shovels and garden forks, and on top of the shelves were lots of paint tins, including a big one that was labelled TNT (must be Dad’s weed killer, or what Mum uses for baking or summat). There were a couple of Dad’s old bikes, Granddad’s old army helmet, which had straw and a couple of bird eggs in it. The stuffed fox looked like it wasn’t happy, and all around were spiders as big as horses — well, rats or mice — they were big spiders anyway.
I took a peek through the window and saw some Jehovah’s witnesses knock on the back door. Dad opened the door and for a couple of minutes he was shaking his head and constantly saying no, but it was to no avail as they still wouldn’t leave. Then, out of nowhere, Dad cocked his bum quite high to the right and let out a noise which sounded like a train horn. One of the men screamed, threw up, screamed, threw up again then ran. The other man didn’t run; he just jumped straight over Mr Nettles’ (who is our neighbour, by the way) seven foot fence, clearing it by a good three feet. Dad nodded and shut the door.
Later on, in the bath, as I lay there playing with the floating lumps of coal, I had an idea. If it worked out we could have
a clean bath each and have fish fingers, not fish finger, for tea.
I got my pyjamas on and because it was Friday night and there was no school in the morning I could put my idea into practice tomorrow. Someone knocked on the door again. Excited, I went downstairs hoping it was some more Jehovah’s witnesses, but it was only Mr Giles, who was returning a reluctant Beetroot, whose head Mr Giles had seen sticking out of his back garden; which is six doors down.
*
In the morning, Dad and Mum had to go out, Mum said they were going shopping, but it don’t take two to buy a tin of beans, a pack of fish fingers and milk. Also I think Dad had gone to see if there was any work as his last shift as a coal man was on Friday.
While they were gone I went into the shed and sorted out a lot of old glass bottles, some thick, some thin, some short, some tall; then I went and laid them around the house, in the bathroom, bedrooms, front room, on the beds, under the beds, in the beds, everywhere I could think of. I made my breakfast of porridge, without the milk, and then took Beetroot for a walk.
On returning, I saw Mum and Dad walking in, both looking glum; Mum was clutching her half a bag of shopping to her. Me and Beetroot ran into the shed and in an old box was a couple of Granddad’s old gas masks. After five minutes of wrestling with Beetroot, fixing the gas mask on him, I put mine on and we sneaked into the house. Mum had nipped straight back out again so me and Beetroot scrambled behind the settee, struggling to see in our masks, and there we waited. Dad was laid on the settee with the TV blurring out as he was half asleep. It seemed like we waited there for hours and Beetroot now had his head trapped in the door, trying to pull off his mask. Suddenly, the wait was over. Dad cocked his left leg and
PPPPAAAARRRRP.
Within seconds the windows steamed up, the wallpaper (what was left of it) started to peel and Beetroot was now banging his head against the door. I could even smell it in the gas mask but I still jumped up and started to put the lids on the bottles.
All day Dad was trumping and I fixed the tops back on every bottle and labelled them. I was only briefly disturbed when some lorry driver brought back Beetroot who’d been running down the motorway (which is over ten miles away) with his gas mask still on. For two days I laid down bottles to capture Dad’s trumps, they were all so horrible that Beetroot had been found lying in the middle of the road, barking at cars to run him over. By the end of it I was as green as a cucumber; I looked like a mini Incredible Hulk — but it was worth it.
*
A few months later, we are now living in a big house, all new furniture, new clothes; we even have fish fingers, not fish finger, for tea.
You see, our business was an overnight success; my idea was Bernie Broom’s Bubblebum Bottles for all occasions. We have different strengths for different jobs. You can buy a bottle of top strength, open the top and within seconds all the wallpaper is completely stripped off. A bottle of mild strength will get rid of any door to door salesman and any unwanted callers. Farmers love the weaker bottle; they can put it in a field and no bird or animal (or even human for that matter) will go anywhere near the crops — it’s saved them a fortune on scarecrows. A pretty bad version goes down well with the men who, when they know the mother-in-law is coming round, just pop the bottle on the side; resulting in mother-in-laws that don’t stay very long. The police use different strengths to catch criminals. They squirt it at them and the criminals are jumping into the van without argument; apparently truncheon sales are down a third. At the moment, we are currently negotiating our super-duper strength version with the military. All of our bottles also come with free gas masks and gloves.
Everything is so different now; my Mum and Dad are so happy. Mum’s even told me why Dad’s bubblebum smells don’t bother her. On their first date, Dad sneaked one out in the pictures, which cleared in seconds. Well, Mum’s sense of smell just packed in, it’s never worked since (she always gets an envious look from Beetroot when she says that bit), but the story has a happy ending as Mum always says; at least they got the pictures to themselves.
We have two cars, a brand new telly; we’ve even got clean bath water, all because of my idea. So bottoms up to the smell of success (ha, sorry, I couldn’t help myself!). But for the better everything has changed; well, apart from one thing — Beetroot is still tunnelling.
I Can’t Stand Nosey Buggers
The garden was well overdue a good mowing and that was my intention on such a lovely hot day — but the mower had other ideas. For the life of me I couldn’t get it to start; I changed the fuse in the plug and had it on its back to see if there was anything jammed inside, but to no avail. I started to get angry with it. I wiped the sweat from my brow and in an attempt to make myself feel better I gave it a good boot — but it still wasn’t having it. As I stood there with hands on hips, tongue sticking out, wracking my brain my neighbour and mate Pete popped his head over the fence.
“How’s it going, Tom? Lovely day, ain’t it? Looks like you’re having fun.”
“Hey up, Pete, yeah gorgeous. I don’t know what’s up with this thing; I’m ready for throwing it.” I gave the worthless piece of junk a hard glare. “Anyway, how are you, mate?” I hadn’t seen Pete for over two weeks as he had become quite antisocial since his wife Sally had walked out on him three weeks ago.
“Yeah I’m OK, mate, thanks. Sorry, I’ve been hiding away.”
“No worries, what you doing later? Do you fancy going for a couple of pints?”
“Yeah sound. Lisa’s gone away, ain’t she?”
“Yeah the wife’s gone to her sister’s. Do you fancy a beer now? I got a few in the fridge.”
“Yeah sound, but what about your garden?”
“It don’t really need doing that much.” We both laughed.
“I’ll be round in a mo then, Tom; gonna get me shorts on.”
*
Five minutes later we were sat on the bench in the back garden with a can of Fosters in hand. “Are you all right, Tom? You look a bit thoughtful.”
“Erm, yes, mate. It’s just that I’ve tried to ring Lisa a couple of times, but it keeps going to her voicemail. It’s not like her; she usually has her phone glued to her.”
“Ha, probably no signal; you know what it’s like down the Meadows, especially where your Lisa’s Gemma lives. Didn’t she move to the cul-de-sac on Wood Close?”
“True, it is bad signal reception down there. Yeah, mate, they moved there a couple of months back.” There was a pause as we each took a swig of beer. “So how are you coping then, Pete? Have you heard from Sally?”
“I’m okay, been keeping myself busy, you know? It’s just people sticking their noses in what gets to me; I can’t stand nosey buggers. And no, not heard from her. After all I’ve done for her as well.”
I knew what Pete was getting at; Sally’s leaving had been the talk of the town. Pete had worked all hours to provide a good life for her. Her thanks had been to take up with his so called workmate Steve Sandford while he was pulling overtime in night shifts.
After the nosey people remark I didn’t know if I should ask the next question — but I did. “Do you think you will sort it? You know, get back together?”
“I won’t be hearing from her again; she’s gone for good.” Pete had a little chuckle to himself. Pete’s laughter puzzled me; he was devastated when Sally left. I was going to question him further when he jumped up to get a couple of beers.
“Here you are, get that down you. Did you watch the match the other night?”
“Yeah, mate; it was a cracker, wasn’t it?”
Pete nodded but he had a glazed look in his eyes like his mind was elsewhere. We talked for a bit longer about football then Pete announced that he had to nip out. He practically leapt up from the bench, said he’d meet me at the local pub about eight and then rushed through the gate. I thought it was all very strange.
Putting Pete’s weirdness aside I decided to have another go at doing the garden, but I was going to try and ring Lisa
again first.
*
I was in the pub, halfway through my second pint and still waiting for Pete, when Ted, one of the locals, came in and said, “Have you heard the news? A local woman has been found murdered in the woods; her body was found earlier today.” I turned, confused, and my mind started to race. I still hadn’t heard from Lisa, and Pete had been acting quite strangely.
I was about to ring Lisa for the seventh time that day when in walked Pete; he looked dirty, sweaty and out of breath. “Are you okay, Pete? Where have you been?”
“Hey up, Tom, sorry, mate, I went to pick some bits up from the DIY shop and the bloody car broke down. Can I have a couple of pints, Mick, please?”
I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “Is it sorted? The car?”
“No, mate, had to leave it at the shops. Have you heard from Lisa yet?” I didn’t like the way he grinned when he asked me that — or was I just being paranoid now?
“No, pal, I haven’t; I’m getting worried.”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s like I said, it’s a bad signal; probably that or something daft.”
“Hopefully. Hey, have you heard? A local woman has been murdered.” I watched his face with curiosity.
He took a good gulp from his pint. “No, when was that?”
I was about to answer when I noticed what looked like blood on his hand; his jeans were ripped too. That could be from the car breaking down though; he could have ripped them trying to fix it. “I’m not sure when it was; Ted heard it.”
Pete gave Ted a nasty glare. “Take no notice of that idiot; he gossips more than a woman.” I had never seen Pete get angry. I thought it best to change the subject and we resumed our chat about football.
But a bit later into the evening it was no longer just gossip; it was all over the news. The victim was Joan Cartwright, a local and popular woman who worked at the DIY shop — the same one Pete had been to that day.
Champagne & Lemonade Page 4
