By some miracle this shopping trolley was the one shopping trolley in the world that didn’t have wonky wheels. It sped along the road, passing an old dear chugging along in her Morris Minor. Frank seized his chance and held on to the side of the car. Whizzing down the road now, the Rolls-Royce was just a few cars ahead.
The traffic lights turned red, and all the cars slowed down to stop. Frank pushed away from the Morris Minor so he could catch up with the Rolls-Royce. So as not to be seen, Frank ducked his head. He grabbed on to the boot handle of the Rolls-Royce just as the light turned green. When the car zoomed off, so did Frank.
Night was falling, and after a few minutes the Rolls - Royce turned off into an industrial estate. The road became bumpy, and the boy was thrown up and down in his trolley.
As he could sense the Rolls was slowing down to stop, Frank let go of the car. Without any brakes, the shopping trolley trundled off at speed. The front wheels hit the pavement, and the trolley did a somersault.
Frank crash-landed into a hedge.
DOOSH!
“OOF!”
The boy was now caged in an upside-down shopping trolley. He pushed it upwards, untangled his pyjamas from the branches of the bush and hid behind a burnt-out old burger van. Frank watched as the four men got out of the Rolls-Royce and looked around. As it was a Saturday night, the industrial estate was empty of people.
Rusty old garage doors squeaked open, and three of the men disappeared inside.
It was that magical sound again.
Out zoomed the yellow Mini, coming to a stop a centimetre from Mr Big’s foot.
“Very clever, Gilbert,” snarled the crime boss. “So this heap of junk is the getaway car?”
“Trust me, Mr Big,” replied Dad. “Her name is Queenie. I rebuilt her with my own hands. And she is the greatest racing car in the world!”
Frank couldn’t believe that his father had put Queenie back together and not told him. More secrets. More lies. The boy guessed that the coat of yellow paint was to disguise her. Queenie was a one-off. A Mini with a Union Jack painted on her would be a dead giveaway to the police.
After a short while, the two henchmen emerged from the garage. Both were holding iron bars and wearing what looked like ladies’ tights over their heads. Neither Fingers nor Thumbs were what you might call handsome, but now with their faces all squished down by the tights they looked like monsters of the deep.
Frank desperately needed to talk to his father alone. He had to persuade him to stop this madness. First he needed to create a distraction. Next to Frank’s foot was a crushed-up drink can. The boy threw it high in the air, thinking it would land by Mr Big’s feet. However, he misjudged his throw, and instead it landed on Mr Big’s head.
BOINK!
“OW!” screamed the crime boss. “We’re under attack!”
This was a much bigger distraction than Frank had intended.
Fingers and Thumbs immediately started rushing around, wielding their iron bars as if going into battle. They whacked everything in sight – bushes, bins, even the burnt-out burger van – in an effort to flush out whoever had hurt their glorious leader.
Frank dashed across the ground on all fours. In the confusion, he managed to scuttle over to the back of the Mini and climbed into the boot. The boy squashed himself inside the small space, and shut the door.
CLICK!
Then he kept as still and quiet as possible so he could listen to what was being said.
“We can’t find anyone, guv’nor,” began Fingers.
“We’ve searched everywhere,” added Thumbs.
“They have to be hiding here somewhere!” barked Mr Big.
“Maybe it was a rat,” guessed Thumbs.
“A rat picked up a drink can and threw it at me?” yelled Mr Big.
“A big rat, guv’nor? One of them super-rats?” suggested Thumbs.
“It landed on my head, you imbecile!”
“The rat could have been riding on the back of a pigeon!”
“Just go!” yelled Mr Big. “And bring me back the booty. Or there will be trouble.”
“Right you are, guv’nor,” replied Fingers.
The door of the Mini opened and closed, and Frank could feel the car sink a little as the two henchmen got inside.
ROAR!
The car’s engine revved up, and the back wheels screeched. Then she lurched forward at terrific speed. Frank was immediately slammed against the door of the boot…
“OOF!”
…as Queenie raced off into the night.
Frank was thrown around like a sack of potatoes in the boot as Queenie raced down the roads. Finally the little car came to a halt.
SCREECH!
Somehow the boy was still alive, though he had absolutely no idea where they were. All he did know was that his father was driving a getaway car, but what they were getting away from was a mystery. The boy put his ear next to the boot door, and listened.
First the car door opened.
Then there was the sound of footsteps.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Soon after there was an explosion.
An alarm sounded.
RING!
Then he heard Fingers shouting. “Come on! We have five minutes until the police arrive.”
The boy had to see what was going on.
He forced open the boot a tiny bit…
CLICK.
…and peeked out.
There was black smoke from the explosion, but as it cleared Frank could make out a sign that read: BANK.
The boy was only eleven (nearly twelve) but he had found himself in the middle of a real-life bank robbery. Suddenly he was scared, not just for himself but also for his dad. If the police caught his father, he’d be sent to prison for a very long time. Frank leaped out of the boot, and crawled along the road beside the car. He popped his head up at the driver’s window.
“Argh!” cried his dad upon seeing his son. He wound down the window. “What are you doing here?” the man demanded.
“What are you doing here?” the boy demanded.
“I asked first!” snapped Dad.
“I was worried. I climbed in the boot. I didn’t want you to do anything stupid.”
“What’s more stupid than climbing into the boot of a car?”
“Robbing a bank?” said the boy.
“We are not robbing a bank,” replied Dad.
“What are you doing, then?”
“Fingers and Thumbs are just checking their savings accounts.”
“By blowing the door off?”
“It’s Saturday night. They didn’t realise the bank was closed.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Look, Dad, I may be a kid, but I’m not daft. I know exactly what you are doing. Now you need to get us out of here. Fast.”
“I can’t,” replied Dad.
“Why not?”
“They are bad men, Frank. They are capable of bad things. They’ll hurt me. They’ll hurt you.”
“Then let’s just drive and drive and drive and never stop!”
“They’ll find us!”
At that moment Fingers and Thumbs ran out of the bank carrying a brown suitcase, which wasn’t quite shut. It was trailing money. Fifty-pound notes were in the sky like butterflies.
“DRIVE!” shouted Thumbs.
On seeing this child standing by the car, Fingers shouted, “What the blazes is the kid doin’ ’ere?”
“I don’t know him,” said Dad. “Hey, kid, scram!”
Fingers looked at the boy. “He looks just like you.”
“Poor boy,” replied Dad.
“He is your son!”
Dad looked at Frank again. “Oh yeah, so he is.”
“So what is he doin’ ’ere?” demanded Thumbs.
“I thought it was bring-your-kid-to-work day,” replied Dad, clearly hoping a joke might soften them. He was wrong, as the two goons gave the man a death stare.
NEE-NAW! NEE-NAW!
There w
asn’t time to explain as a police car was speeding down the road towards them.
“It’s the fuzz,” yelled Fingers. “Come on!”
Fingers and Thumbs dived into the Mini through the passenger side.
“MATE! GET IN!” shouted Dad as he revved the engine.
“How?” pleaded the boy.
“JUMP!”
The police car sped closer and closer.
NEE-NAW! NEE-NAW!
Dad revved the engine.
ROAR!
The two heavies in the back started shouting.
“LEAVE THE FOOL!”
“NASTY LITTLE RUNT!”
“MATE! JUMP IN!” begged Dad.
With that, the boy leaped head first into the car. The engine roared and Queenie sped off down the street, with Frank’s bottom sticking out of the window.
Never stick your bottom out of a car window.
If you have to stick your bottom out of a car window for whatever reason, make sure you are wearing something warmer than pyjamas. That is because there is a very real danger you will develop a condition called “bottom freeze”. This is when a person’s bottom temperature descends to danger levels. Bottoms can get so cold they actually turn blue. In very serious cases, frozen bottoms have been known to or even off.
Bottom freeze can be brought on in a number of ways …
doing a number two in an igloo…
sticking your bottom in a freezer…
trying to melt a snowman using only the heat from your naked bottom…
attempting to catch a polar bear in the Arctic using your bottom as bait…
tobogganing on your bare bottom…*
accidentally sitting on an icicle… (That can be painful too, if the icicle is sharp.)
cryogenically freezing your bottom so it will live on for future generations…
mistaking an iceberg for a nice comfy sofa…
becoming trapped under an out-of-control Mr Whippy machine…
Frank’s bottom was becoming dangerously cold as Queenie flew through the town with the police car in hot pursuit. Dad pulled his son into the car, and the boy shuffled across his father’s lap, before crawling into the back seat next to Thumbs.
The gorilla of a man stared at the small boy.
“Good evening,” said Frank, not sure what to say to this brute.
“No, it isn’t,” replied the big man.
Thumbs looked out through the back window. The one police car had become three. They were gaining on them.
NEE-NAW! NEE-NAW!
“Throw the boy out,” ordered Thumbs. “He’s slowing us down.”
“In fairness, I think you might weigh a tiny bit more,” said the boy.
If this was designed to lighten the mood, it backfired badly.
“Are you calling me fat?” growled Thumbs.
“No, but you do weigh more.”
“Stop bickering in the back,” ordered Fingers.
“He started it!” replied Thumbs. “He’s picking on me for my size.”
“Shut up and hold tight!” said Dad as they whizzed round a corner.
They had now reached the outskirts of town.
“Where on earth are you going?” demanded Fingers. “This isn’t the way to the guv’nor’s mansion.”
“I know. I thought we could take a little shortcut.”
Dad turned the steering wheel sharply, and the car started going up some steep steps.
“Where are you taking us?” shouted Fingers as his long fingers gripped on to his chair.
“We are going to lose them,” said Dad.
Queenie crashed through a barrier, and suddenly they were on the pitch of a football ground. The three police cars were still in hot pursuit.
NEE-NAW! NEE-NAW!
The Mini came to a halt in the dead centre of the pitch. The three police cars fanned out and stopped too.
A voice came over a loudspeaker on top of one of the police cars.
“THIS IS Sergeant Scoff.”
“He must want his trousers back,” said Frank.
“Who fancies a game of football?” announced Dad.
“Sounds good, Dad!” replied Frank.
ROAR!
Queenie sped off up the steps into the stand where the spectators sit.
BONK!
BONK!
BONK!
One of the police cars gave chase.
BONK!
BONK!
BONK!
“Shift over!” shouted Dad to Thumbs.
The henchman did what he was told and slid over to Frank’s side of the car.
Then Dad turned the steering wheel sharply and put the Mini on to two wheels. It just fitted through the gangway between the rows of seats. Frank was squashed by having this man-mountain on top of him, but didn’t feel this was the right moment to complain. The police car giving chase behind ploughed through the seats.
NEE-NAW! NEE-NAW! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
The seats flew up into the air, and into the windscreen of the police car. The driver could not have been able to see where he was going, because the police car smashed straight into the giant TV screen.
CRASH!
The police car dangled out of the screen, like a film in 3-D.
“One down, two to go,” said Dad.
He turned the steering wheel sharply and Queenie went up on to two wheels again, and the stairs…
…on to the pitch.
The two remaining police cars were waiting on the far side. They surged forward towards the Mini at terrific speed, tearing up the grass.
The Mini surged forward too.
The cars were hurtling towards each other across the pitch.
This was a dangerous game of chicken.
Who would crumble first?
“Argh!” screamed Fingers. He closed his eyes as the police cars headed straight for them.
“Make it stop!” bawled Thumbs. Frank looked at the beast of a man, who was close to tears.
If someone didn’t slam on the brakes, there would be a head-on collision.
Dad held his nerve.
He was a champion banger racer, after all. Waiting until he could see the whites of the policemen’s eyes he yanked on the handbrake and spun the car round on the spot.
“NOOO!” cried Fingers and Thumbs.
The two police cars turned sharply. One turned too sharply and ended up on its roof, skidding across the pitch.
Dad expertly took the Mini out of its spin and nudged the police car into the back of the net.
“GOAL!” shouted Frank.
Now there was just one police car standing.
Queenie sped around the pitch and the police car chased her on the inside. They did lap after lap after lap. Round and round they raced. It was like the last two cars left in a banger race.
Frank saw that one of the officers in the police car was Sergeant Scoff. The policeman had a wild look in his eye and was leaning out of the window, his comb-over flapping in the breeze. He was shouting orders to the officer driving the car.
Scoff stared into the Mini. The two robbers had their faces squashed by ladies’ tights, but Frank and his father didn’t have any form of disguise. The boy panicked. Would Sergeant Scoff recognise him and Dad?
THUNK!
Dad bashed the Mini into the police car and sent it spinning towards the goal.
Somehow the police officer driving managed to regain control of the car and stopped just short of the goal line.
Dad put his foot down on the accelerator and powered straight towards the police car.
The bonnets of the two cars bashed.
It was like two buffalo locking their heads together in battle.
Engines thundered.
Wheels spun. ROAR!
WHIZZ!
Metal crunched.
This was a mighty duel.
All of a sudden it seemed as if Dad was losing. The police car was surging forward, pushing the Mini backwards. Frank looked up at t
he policemen staring in at them. Their faces were lit up with glee. They were winning. Or so they thought.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GILBERT?” shouted Fingers.
“THEY’VE GOT US, YOU IDIOT!” yelled Thumbs.
“Or have they?” said Dad.
In a flash, he threw the Mini into reverse.
Frank looked out of the rear window.
Now they were going backwards towards the goal. The police car accelerated. Just at the last moment Dad turned the steering wheel of the Mini sharply, and the car spun round.
The police officer driving was taken by surprise and his car ploughed straight past them into the goal.
“GOAL!” shouted Frank.
“Now let’s get out of here!” said Dad.
The car sped off towards the gate.
Father and son cheered as the car bounced down the steps.
But they weren’t safe yet. Just as they reached the road, they saw a semicircle of police cars ahead. Dad threw the car into reverse, but it was too late. More police cars came from behind, and stopped in formation, bumper to bumper. The Mini was now trapped in a circular cage of police cars.
A police helicopter hovered overhead, shining a spotlight on the Mini.
There was no way out.
came a voice over a loud-hailer.
It was Scoff, standing at the top of the steps that led into the football stadium. The policeman looked a little dazed after his car had so spectacularly hit the back of the net, but at least he’d found another pair of trousers, even though this pair was too short for him. His outrageous comb-over was into the air as the helicopter’s blades spun. The mini-tornado it was creating threw leaves and litter spinning into the air all around the Mini. The little car so hard it sounded as if it was going to fall apart.
Bad Dad Page 6
