Billy Angel

by Sam Hay

  Charlie swept back his greasy, black hair and sniggered. ‘Oh, and he’s going to beat me, is he?’ He sniggered again, and then went back to his sausage girlfriend.

  Well, he had a point. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Stan wasn’t looking his best. I’d definitely made a few errors with my rewiring. I’d already noticed he couldn’t quite close his jaw properly, and one of his feet had fallen off, but I’d hidden it in my tool bag.

  The announcer guy, who looked a bit like Thelma – apart from the bald head and moustache (her dad, I reckoned), picked up his mike again.

  ‘Now, the rules are simple: competitors must not be helped by any of their supporters; they must finish each pie before embarking on their next; they’re only allowed to sip water – no other liquids; the time limit is ten minutes and the judges’ decision is final. We’re pleased to have with us Jeffrey Dullard from The Guinness Book of Records to ensure it’s a fair and impartial competition. Now, bring on the pies!’

  The kitchen doors opened and large silver platters piled high with pies were presented to each competitor, along with a jug of water. Members of Jeffrey Dullard’s team were assigned to watch each competitor, and count the pies they consumed.

  My heart was racing. This was it. I still wasn’t quite sure what I was doing here. I certainly hadn’t protected Thelma from her dark side. I’d practically introduced her to it. If it hadn’t been for me and my screwdrivers, we wouldn’t even be sitting here. I sighed, and started trying to think of ways to explain all this to the hoodie-angel…

  Chapter 16

  ‘On your marks, get set, GO!’

  And we were off. Or rather, Stan was.

  Before the start of the contest, he’d been like a greyhound fighting to get out of his trap: Gaby had had to hold his arms down to stop him getting stuck into the pies. So as soon as the whistle went, he grabbed his first pie, and took an enormous bite.

  Thelma’s grin was as wide as my tool bag.

  Stan chomped like crazy, pie fat running down his chin. But the others were getting stuck in, too.

  ‘Kelly the Belly’s on pie number two,’ whispered Gaby.

  But Stan was holding his own. He’d already started on his third, and was at least six mouthfuls ahead of Charlie Pittam.

  I wasn’t really watching the competition; I was staring at Stan’s jaw. There was something not quite right about it. And I suddenly wondered whether I should have made more of an effort to fit the spare screws in somewhere.

  ‘The Growler’s on pie number five,’ shrieked Thelma. ‘Come on, Stan!’

  He didn’t need much encouragement. Stan increased his pace, and by the time he got to his seventh pie, he was in the lead. But Charlie was hard on his heels.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Gaby. ‘Grant’s on number eight.’

  I couldn’t really see Grant from where I was sitting. But I didn’t bother trying too hard. I knew he was no match for Stan and Charlie.

  I was right.

  ‘Stan’s on number ten,’ roared Thelma.

  But so was Charlie…

  ‘Come on, Charlie!’ screamed his moon-faced girlfriend. The encouragement worked. Charlie’s rhythmic chewing stepped up a beat and within seconds he was on pie number twelve.

  I was mesmerised watching him. Round and round he chewed. And then, without missing a beat, he’d take a glug of water, and start another pie. It actually made me feel quite sick.

  ‘THREE MINUTES TO GO!’ shouted Thelma’s dad.

  And that’s when disaster struck.

  Stan was in the lead on pie 13, when his jaw suddenly stopped. It just froze, like someone had turned off the power.

  ‘Come on, Stan!’ boomed Thelma. ‘What are you doing?’

  But Stan was stuck. Well and truly. His mouth was full of pie, but there was definitely a malfunction somewhere.

  I gulped. Now was definitely not the time to own up about the screws.

  ‘Do something, Billy!’ thundered Thelma.

  But what could I do? The rules were clear. Supporters were not allowed to help. And anyway, by then it was too late.

  ‘Two minutes to go…’

  Thelma was close to tears. Stan seemed to have turned grey, and I noticed his bones were starting to show through his skin.

  ‘Gaby!’ I gasped. ‘What’s happening to Stan?’

  She shrugged. ‘I think the spell might be wearing off. I told you – that first-edition spell book isn’t worth bog paper.’

  ‘Come on,’ I grabbed her arm. ‘I think we’d better get him out of here before he turns back into a bag of bones.’

  Together, we manhandled Stan away from the table and to his wheelbarrow in the kitchen. He didn’t seem too bothered. In fact he seemed quite relieved. He had a deeply contented smile on his face, as though his belly was full of pie and life felt pretty darn good.

  We raced back into the shop just in time to see Kelly the Belly leave the table. She was quitting at pie 13. There were just three of them left: Charlie Pittam, The Australian Growler and, the biggest shocker of all, Grant the pie chef.

  ‘Thirty seconds to go.’

  ‘The Ozzie’s out!’ gasped Gabby, as the khaki bloke stood up with a face the colour of his shirt.

  Charlie and Grant were neck and neck on pie 14. They’d both slowed down considerably. Each mouthful now looked laboured. But astonishingly it was Grant the pie chef who finished first (although he looked sick as a dog). Then, just as Grant reached for his 15th pie, he did a very silly thing. He looked over to Thelma, who was slumped in the corner, and shouted in a very soppy voice, ‘Thelma, I love you. This one’s for you!’ And with that he took an enormous bite.

  The audience gasped. Thelma nearly fell off her chair. And Charlie threw up. Literally, and it wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you.

  ‘Grant, you’ve won!’ squealed Thelma.

  The crowd went wild. And Grant went blue. In all the excitement, pie number 15 had got stuck in his throat. At first, everyone was too busy cheering to notice. But then Grant fell under the table and the room went quiet. There were screams and moans and people were queuing up to thump him on the back.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ shouted Thelma’s dad.

  ‘He’s going to die!’ called out Charlie cheerfully.

  ‘Billy!’ bawled Thelma. ‘Do something!’

  Me? Why me? I mean, I’m not exactly a close friend of Thelma’s. She can’t stand me, for God’s sake. But for some reason, it was me she shouted to. And, bizarrely, I responded. I did what any plumber would do – I reached inside my giant tool bag, immediately found my plunger and leapt over the table. I put the plunger carefully over Grant’s mouth and nose, and gently plunged three times.

  That was all it took. In seconds, I felt movement. I loosened the plunger, and used my finger to winkle out the final piece of pie number 15.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ came a deep, gravely voice from the door.

  It was my dad!

  Disaster! The last thing in the world I wanted was for him to see me do anything vaguely connected to a future in plumbing. I could have kicked myself. And then there was uproar. Grant was coughing and puking and thanking me, at the same time as trying to snog Thelma, who was declaring her undying love for him! Then I was suddenly thrust aloft by the pie-eating fans and flung into the air to a resounding chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow…’

  What a night.

  Or should that be nightmare?

  Eventually, things calmed down. Grant was crowned pie-eating champ of the night, though as he hadn’t actually finished his final pie (which had very nearly finished him off), Stan’s record was declared safe, which I felt quite glad about. Thelma’s dad promised me a lifetime’s supply of free pies. (He’d secretly admitted that his pie shop couldn’t take another death on the premises. Personally I think they should scrap the competition, it’s too dangerous.) Thelma and Grant asked me to be their best man, when they tie the knot in five years’ time. (They really did set t
he date and everything.) Thelma also took me aside and said she was touched that I loved her, and that I’d saved Grant’s life, but I could never be more than a brother to her – for which I thank my lucky stars. Charlie Pittam left with his new girlfriend, muttering about how pies were overrated, and sausages were much more his thing. And my dad toured the room, telling anyone he could corner long enough that I was a real chip off the old block and he was planning to enter me in the plunging event of the next Olympics. (Don’t laugh. It’s true. They do actually hold a plumbing Olympics every four years. You see what sort of life I have to look forward to?) Gaby, who’d disappeared for a while, returned to tell me that she’d wheeled Stan into the back alley behind the shop. He was unfortunately now a bag of bones again, but Gaby said he’d had the happiest smile she’d ever seen on a skeleton. (And, of course, she’s seen hundreds.) We both agreed to meet up the next day to somehow return Stan to his box in the anatomy library. And me? I was just glad to go home.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Hey, Lavender Rise, what’s with the beauty sleep?’

  I actually smelt him before I saw him. It was eleven o’clock and I wasn’t asleep. I was waiting for him. I wanted him to tell me it was all over. And that I didn’t have to watch over Thelma for the rest of my life…

  ‘Well, you didn’t exactly save Thelma from her dark side, did you?’ he scolded.

  I sighed. I knew I was probably in the heavenly doghouse.

  Then the hoodie-angel grinned. ‘But they’re pleased with you anyway. By doing such a dreadful job with those screws, the zombie thing was never going to work. And, most importantly, you saved Grant, so Thelma will live happily ever after.’

  I suddenly felt weary. ‘All I want to know is whether I’m finished. Can I stop taking care of Thelma now?’

  He nodded. ‘That mission is over.’

  ‘And what about the ear nipping? I presume that was all your doing?’

  The hoodie-angel smirked. ‘Not guilty. Blame yourself for that one. As soon as you signed the guardian-angel contract, your inner angel was unleashed. All that ear stuff was your inner angel making sure you were paying attention to the important stuff.’

  I gasped. My life couldn’t get much worse. An ugly looking outer angel hounding me day and night was one thing, but having to deal with an ear-pinching, do-gooding inner angel as well, was quite another.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else to cheer you up,’ the hoodie-angel laughed.

  I sighed. Now I was free of Thelma, I just wished he’d push off.

  ‘You know, the truth is you weren’t supposed to do this.’

  ‘What?’ I sat up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I got it a bit wrong.’ The hoodie-angel grinned an even bigger grin (quite a menacing sight, I can tell you). ‘There are two William Boxes in this house, right? Well, we wanted the other one, not you.’

  ‘My dad?’ I breathed. It made complete sense. My dad really was a time-served hero.

  ‘Yeah, but the good news is, they reckon you’ve done such a good job that you deserve the gig.’

  ‘What!’ I yelped.

  ‘Yep – you’ve earned your wings.’

  ‘But I don’t want my wings. I don’t want to be an angel!’

  ‘Tough,’ growled the hoodie-angel, suddenly looking grumpy again. ‘Some people are never satisfied.’

  I leapt out of bed and prodded his chest. ‘Now, listen here. I do not want to be an angel, not now, not ever.’

  He was so taken aback that someone so small and puny would dare to prod him, that he laughed; a big nasty belly laugh, and gave me a wink. ‘You’re really something else. Anyway, must fly now, but I’ll be seeing you again soon.’ And with that he disappeared into the wardrobe.

  I ran after him. But this time, he didn’t leave so much as a feather.

  I collapsed on my bed and felt like weeping. But then I changed my mind. Tears were for wimps. What I needed was action. I pulled off my pyjamas and got into my plumbing overalls. I opened my tool bag and took out my tool belt. I filled it with every plumbing tool that would fit and squashed the rest down my socks and under my overall. It wasn’t very comfy, I can tell you. Then I found every plumbing book I own and stuck them all over my bed. Finally, I carefully climbed under the covers.

  If this lot didn’t make me Dream the Dream, then nothing would. After all, I am William Box – I come from a long line of trusted and respected plumbers. I am not, nor will I ever be an angel. It’s just not my destiny.

  The End (for now).

  First published 2008 by

  A & C Black Publishers Ltd

  38 Soho Square, London, W1D 3HB

  www.acblack.com

  Text copyright © 2008 Sam Hay

  Illustrations copyright © 2008 Emma Dodson

  The rights of Sam Hay and Emma Dodson to be

  identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively

  have been asserted by them in accordance with the

  Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-71368-881-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-40815-345-1

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.