Fing

by David Walliams

Again nothing.

  “HEAVE!”

  Nothing.

  The poor lady was pooped.

  “I am so sorry, Father, but I am all heaved out!” she sighed.

  Father had an idea. “Have you got any custard creams in the house?”

  “No,” replied Mother. “Not one. We did have a whole tin, but the FING scoffed them all in seconds.”

  That gave Father an idea. “Then that must be the only way to get this wretched thing off!” he announced. “With a –” he paused for effect –

  “BISCUIT!”

  Mr Meek drew some funny looks in the supermarket, what with the FING still biting on to him. Being British, he thought it best to carry on as if there were absolutely nothing at all strange about having a furry ball with one eye stuck to the end of his finger.

  He greeted his fellow shoppers with a smile. “Good morning!”

  Being British, they didn’t say anything. Instead they just smiled weakly and hurried off as fast as they could.

  Despite being far too big to sit in the baby seat on the shopping trolley, Myrtle insisted on squeezing herself into it.

  “I’m allergic to walking!” she announced as her parents lowered her in.

  “Now, where are the custard creams?” asked Father.

  “I want crisps!” demanded Myrtle.

  “No, we are not getting crisps today, my fluffy kitten,” replied Mother. “Just custard creams so we can get that FING off your poor father’s finger.”

  Myrtle never, ever did what her parents said, and she wasn’t going to start now. So the girl grabbed a bumper bag of crisps and dropped it into the trolley.

  “Just those, then, light of my life,” said Mother. “Nothing else.”

  “MORE! MORE! MORE!”

  “No more, please!”

  “CHOCOLATE!”

  “No, we are not getting any chocolate today, bunny wunny,” replied Father.

  Myrtle grabbed the biggest bar of chocolate from the shelf.

  “That’s all now, please, dearest heart,” said Father, picking up the pace and pushing the trolley as fast as he could to get to the biscuit section. The FING must have been getting hungry. Perhaps it was smelling all the food. Its eye widened and its sharp teeth sank deeper and deeper into Mr Meek’s finger.

  it growled.

  “MOOBOOFOOBOODOODOO!” cried Mr Meek in pain.

  “MORE! MORE! MORE!”

  “I said no more, please,” pleaded Mother.

  “SWEETS!”

  “No, we are not getting any sweets today, poppet!” she spluttered as she desperately tried to keep up with the speeding trolley.

  Mr Meek was now pushing it so fast that old ladies had to leap out of the way.

  “Sorry!” he exclaimed as some poor old dear landed in the deep freeze.

  “Please don’t apologise!” she called back. “I needed some frozen peas!”

  All the time, Myrtle was grabbing bags and bags and bags of sweets and dropping them into the trolley.

  DINK! DUNK! DENK!

  Soon it was overflowing with goodies.

  “No more sweets, boo-boo!” said Mr Meek as he now sprinted down the aisle. He began to feel light-headed with the pain. It felt as if the FING was going to bite his poor finger off.

  “BIBBITY-BOBBOTY-BOO!” yelled Father.

  Just then a bulky security guard trundled round the corner and barked,

  “STOP

  Unwisely, the security guard was standing right in the path of the speeding trolley. Even though her hand was in a STOP position, Mr Meek just couldn’t bring it to a halt.

  “SORRY!” he cried out, but it was too little too late.

  BOINK!

  The trolley with Myrtle still sitting in it bashed into the security guard, sending her flying.

  “UGH!”

  “HUH! HUH!” laughed the girl.

  “It’s not funny, darling,” corrected Mother.

  “No, it’s hilarious!” was the reply. “HUH! HUH! HUH!”

  The security guard landed in the cheese section between a Blue Wensleydale and a RED LEICESTER. Fortunately, a soft cheese, a Stinking Bishop, cushioned her landing.

  SPLAT!

  “OOF!”

  “Super cheese selection,” remarked Mr Meek with a smile. He was hoping that he could somehow distract the security guard from her mentioning being run over by a man with a furry ball on the end of his finger.

  “Would you care to explain where you were going in such an unholy hurry?” demanded the security guard as she wiped the stinky goo from her bottom.

  “We were just making a slow amble over to the biscuits!” replied Mr Meek, pointing with his finger, momentarily forgetting that he still had the FING attached to it.

  “Oops,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” demanded the guard.

  “What’s what?” was the mock-innocent reply.

  “That thing.”

  “It’s a FING,” interjected Myrtle.

  “SHUSH!” shushed the girl’s mother.

  “Pets are strictly forbidden in this supermarket,” announced the guard.

  “It’s not a pet,” fibbed Father.

  “Would you care to explain what it is, then?”

  Mr Meek thought for a moment. He wasn’t good at lying. “A wart.”

  “A WART! HUH! HUH! HUH!” laughed Myrtle.

  “SHUSH!” shushed Mother.

  The security guard did not look convinced. She leaned in to inspect the protuberance. As she got closer, her eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled in disgust. “If it is a wart, it is the biggest, hairiest, most repulsive-looking wart I have ever seen in my life.”

  “Thank you,” replied Mr Meek. “My wart has won competitions.”

  The FING’S eye opened, and swivelled to look at the security guard.

  “AND IT’S GOT AN EYE!”

  “That’s probably why it won.”

  The guard looked most disturbed, and demanded, “What kind of competitions?”

  “Wart competitions, obviously. It won first prize for furriest wart in the south-west region. I got a certificate. And my wart here got a rosette.”*

  The FING must have heard all this talk about being a wart, because it snarled and sank its teeth in deeper.

  “Your wart just growled!” exclaimed the guard.

  “Did it? I didn’t hear anything,” lied Mr Meek.

  “It most certainly did.”

  “SUDOKU!”

  “There it goes again!”

  “Large warts do make a noise,” lied Mr Meek. “It is best not to be alarmed. It just means they are growing. Now, if you’ll excuse me and my wart, we really must pick up that packet of custard creams. Goodbye!”

  With that, he thrust the trolley forward, and was gone.

  With his free hand, Mr Meek snatched a packet of custard creams, and raced to the nearest till. When all the items Myrtle had grabbed had passed along the conveyor belt, the moody teenage cashier announced, “That’s seven hundred and eighty-three pounds and fifty-three pence!”

  That was a colossal haul of crisps, chocolates and sweets. Even for Myrtle.

  “But I don’t have that much money on me,” panicked Mr Meek.

  “Nor me,” yelped Mrs Meek. She turned to her daughter. “Beauteous one, do you mind awfully if we put back a bag or two of sweeties?”

  Myrtle looked at her parents with utter contempt.

  she screamed.

  It was so loud everyone in the supermarket could hear. In fact, it was so loud everyone in the supermarket in the next town could hear too. Of course, being meek by name and meek by nature, the last thing Mr and Mrs Meek wanted was to make a scene. Even FING didn’t like it. The creature growled…

  …closed its one eye and bit hard on Father’s finger again.

  He winced. “MINTYMUNTYMONTY!” As all eyes turned to the shy little man, he added, “Apologies, my wart is just going through a growth spurt.”

  FING didn’t like that
. Oh no. The creature bit harder still.

  “YABBADABBADOO!” yelped Father. “Please, we need to get home, and fast. Let’s just put back this industrial-sized tin of fudge?”

  He reached into the trolley for it.

  “DON’T TOUCH THE FUDGE!”

  “What if I do?” asked Father.

  “I WILL SCREAM AND SCREAM AND SCREAM UNTIL I THROW UP ALL OVER YOU!”

  “She’s done it before,” mused Mother.

  Now a queue of disgruntled shoppers was forming behind the Meek family. Being British, although no one was openly complaining at having to wait, there was an awful lot of tutting.

  “Tut!”

  “Tut!”

  “Tut!” tutted the tutters.

  “Oh no. We are being tutted at. This is horrendously embarrassing,” whispered Father.*

  “Please could we put back just this one incy wincy ickle bag?” begged Mother, holding up a humble packet of toffees.

  “WWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAA

  AAHHHHHHHHHHH!” wailed Myrtle.

  A volcanic explosion of tears and snot and dribble sprayed over everyone. Mr and Mrs Meek. FING. The cashier. The queue. All were coated from head to toe in Myrtle’s tears-snot-dribble gloop.

  growled FING.

  “Grumble, grumble, grumble,” grumbled the crowd of shoppers.

  “That was refreshing,” remarked Mother, trying to put a positive spin on having been well and truly snotted.*

  Because of the commotion, the supermarket manager came charging out of her office.

  “OUT! OUT! OUT! GET OUT OF MY SUPERMARKET! AT ONCE!” she shouted. However, the tears-snot-dribble gloop had coated the floor, making it as slippery as an ice rink. This meant her authority was immediately undermined by her slipping over and completing the last part of the journey on her bottom.

  “WOOH!”

  She was sliding so fast that she hit the trolley with a…

  THUNK!

  …sending it thundering forward…

  BOOMF!

  It crashed straight through the supermarket window…

  SMASH!

  …sending Myrtle and all the shopping zooming off down the street.

  “Oh deary, deary me,” remarked Mother.

  “Oh deary, deary, deary us indeed,” added Father.

  Myrtle was still squashed into the baby seat, munching on crisps, as the shopping trolley weaved in and out of the path of the oncoming traffic.

  “Stop that trolley!” called Father out of the window of his little car. “It contains some very important custard creams!”

  “And our daughter!” shouted Mother.

  “Oh yes, and our daughter.”

  “Let’s be mindful of the billing. We don’t want to upset our little angel.”

  “Oh yes, Myrtle first.”

  “Of course!”

  Mr Meek swerved the car through the traffic so it was now parallel with the trolley.

  BRMM!

  “Grab hold of the bonnet!” he ordered Myrtle.

  “I’m busy,” replied the girl. To be fair, she was busy as she had just popped open the packet of custard creams.

  “Please don’t eat them all, my petal!” pleaded Father, reaching out of the window to grab hold of the trolley. “I need them for FING!”

  came a growl. FING’S eye swivelled and zoomed in on the biscuits.

  The sight of them sent the creature into a CUSTARD-CREAM-INDUCED FRENZY.

  Immediately, FING stopped biting Father’s finger.

  “My finger’s still there!” exclaimed Father, inspecting the deep bite marks on his digit.

  Then FING leaped from the speeding car on to the trolley.

  DOINK!

  It rolled over the packets of food…

  RUSTLE! RUSTLE! RUSTLE!

  …before leaping at the girl, snatching a biscuit right out of her hand.

  CHOMP!

  “GET OFF ME, YOU FILTHY LITTLE BEAST!” shouted Myrtle, bashing the creature away with one hand as she helped herself to another custard cream from the packet with the other. In all the commotion, she failed to see what was ahead.

  A double-decker bus in the middle of the road.

  Mr Meek stamped on the brakes of his little car.

  S C R E E C H!

  It came to a juddering halt.

  Mr and Mrs Meek’s faces squashed against the windscreen.

  “MYRTLE! LOOK OUT!” screamed Mother.

  It was too late.

  The supermarket trolley walloped into the bus.

  BOOSH!

  In the blink of an eye, the trolley and all its contents were sailing over the bus and flying through the air.

  WHIRR!

  Mr and Mrs Meek looked on, open-mouthed in wonder, as they saw their daughter somersaulting while still eating a biscuit.

  MUNCH!

  Until the girl landed on the road with an almighty…

  After Mr and Mrs Meek had scooped up Myrtle, FING and all the food off the road, and bundled everything into the back of their little car, they drove home. It was only when they opened the boot that they realised FING had not just devoured all the custard creams.

  “Oops!” said Father.

  “Oops indeed,” agreed Mother.

  Oh no.

  FING had eaten all the crisps, all the chocolate and all the cake too. It had chocolate all around its mouth. Well, one can only assume it was its mouth. Indeed, we can only assume it was chocolate. Having eaten all the mountain of food from the supermarket, FING was now munching its way through the spare tyre.*

  GOBBLE!

  As a result of all this eating, FING had dramatically expanded. It was now around the size of a space hopper. And, just like a space hopper, it bounced.

  BOINK!

  Until it reached the front door.

  BOINK!

  As FING couldn’t go any further now, it bounced and bounced against the door.

  B O I N K ! B O I N K ! B O I N K !

  The BOINKs got harder and harder.

  B O I N K ! B O I N K ! B O I N K !

  “Just one moment, please, FING!” called out Mother. “I will get that door open in a jiffy!”

  It was the best she could do, as sadly she didn’t speak FING. The lady chased after the creature, jangling the front-door keys. Just as she had the key ready to put in the lock…

  B O I N K ! B O I N K ! B O I N K !

  …FING bounced against the door with such force that it flew off its hinges.

  BASH!

  The door toppled into the house.

  THUD!

  “Oh! I see you have the door open already,” remarked Mother as cheerfully as she could muster.

  Meanwhile, Father lifted Myrtle out of the car. The girl had got even heavier in the weeks since he’d been on his adventure.

  “Ooh, my back!” he yelped in pain as he tried to take her weight alone. “Do you mind walking the two or three steps to the house just this once, my petal?”

  “NO!” she snapped.

  “Well, I’ll do my best,” sighed Father.

  As he staggered past the boot with Myrtle in his arms, she peered in and saw the empty food packages.

  “WHERE’S ALL ME GRUB?” she demanded.

  “My dearest one, I have some rather upsetting news…”

  “WOT?”

  “I am afraid FING ate it all.”

  “NOOOOOOOOO!”

  “It didn’t quite finish the spare tyre, if you fancied a nibble…”

  Now, dear reader, I invite you to regard this splendid heart-warming scene. In the living room, FING was bouncing excitedly next to the cage that housed the other FING from the pet shop.

  Mother looked on with delight. “How super!” she squealed. “Big FING just can’t wait to meet Little FING!”

  Little FING had emerged from under a pile of newspaper, and was pressing its mouth (or perhaps its other end* up against the bars of its cage. Big FING banged against it as it bounced.

  “EEK! EEK! EEK
!” it squeaked.

  B O I N K ! B O I N K ! B O I N K !

  TING! TING! TING!

  With some difficulty, Father lugged his daughter into the room, and deposited her on the sofa.

  A cloud of dust filled the room.

  “These two adorable creatures are going to be the best of friends!” said Mother. “Look, Myrtle dearest!”

  “WOT?”

  “As they are your pets, perhaps you’d like to introduce Big FING to Little FING?”

  “CARTOONS!”

  “Now?”

  “YES, NOW!”

  Mother sighed, and switched on the television. Myrtle stared at it, picking her nose idly.

  “I know from studying all the animal-behaviour books* in the LIBRARY that when introducing one pet to another it is sensible to take things very slowly,” began Mrs Meek.

  “Excellent point, Mother.”

  “Thank you kindly, Father. You hold on to Big FING while I gently take Little FING out of its cage.”

  Mr Meek did what he was told. He kneeled down, slightly snagging his long beard under his knees.

  “OUCH!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I am fine!” he replied sharply. Then he pinned Big FING to the carpet to stop it from bouncing.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Meek gently opened Little FING’S cage.

  TWANG!

  “EEK! EEK! EEK!”

  “Right,” she said as she reached in. “I am just going to let them sniff each other first.”

  Mother cupped her hand over Little FING, who was only the size of a marble. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she brought the creature down to meet the newest member of the family. Little FING’S eye widened.

  “Little FING, meet Big F—” but, before she could say “ING”, Big FING burst out of Father’s grip, bounced up…