by Guy Bass
For Ruth, of course! ~ Guy Bass
For Cath and Leni ~ Pete Williamson
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Extract
About Guy Bass
About Pete Williamson
Behind the Scenes
Copyright
Greetings! To dallywanglers, ringdingers and snuggabouts! To the imaginary and the unimaginary! To the living, the dead and everyone in between, my name is Keys … Skeleton Keys.
Many moons ago, I began my existence as an IF – an imaginary friend. Then, one day, I suddenly became as real as kneecaps! I had become what we in the business of imagining call unimaginary.
But I am more than just a handsome bag o’ bones. For these fantabulant fingers of mine can open doors to hidden worlds and secret places … doors to the limitless realm of all the imagination.
Ol’ Mr Keys has seen all there is worth hearing, heard everything there is to see and forgotten more stories than I shall ever remember. Oh, the things I know would curl your toes! The stories I could tell you…
But of course stories are why you are here. Well, have I got a hum-dum-dinger for you, set to blow your mind out of your nose-holes. This unimaginary tale is so truly unbelievable that it must, unbelievably, be true.
Meet Ben Bunsen. Now, I know what you are thinking – why should I care a jot about this little ankle-sprout? He may have a head and toes and soul as any person might possess, but he is certainly no dashing, key-fingered skeleton with a thousand adventures under his belt and a thousand more to come! To look at him, you might imagine he is unremarkable – and, in truth, most people would agree with you. Ben spends his days being ignored by other children. Why? He is not certain – for, if he was, he might attempt to do something about it.
As it is, Ben has only one friend in all the world. But since this is no ordinary tale, his is no ordinary friend. You see, the most remarkable thing about Ben’s friend is that he is a figment of Ben’s wild imagination. And strange things can happen when imaginations run wild…
Our story begins in a small town on a small island on the second Sunday of February. As mist rolls in over the ocean and the gulls caw in the darkening sky we see a higgledy-piggledy house – tall, crooked and but a stone’s throw from a winding beach. It is Ben Bunsen’s tenth birthday, and preparations are under way for a party to remember…
“How do I look?” Ben asked the Gorblimey. Since the Gorblimey was a figment of his imagination, there was no reply. All the same, Ben waited a moment and then said, “Thanks.”
It was the first time Ben had ever had a birthday party. Invitations had been sent to almost every child on Grundy Island. Ben’s mum and dad had spent all day getting the house ready. Multi-coloured balloons covered every inch of the floor … bunting hung from the ceiling … cakes, crisps, biscuits and a rainbow of fizzy drinks awaited the guests, not to mention gifts and games and an honest-to-goodness firework display in the garden. This was going to be a party to remember.
“One minute to go,” he said, checking his watch. Ben had been in his bedroom in the attic of their higgledy-piggledy house for half an hour. His dad had suggested Ben wait there until everyone arrived, and then make “a big entrance” accompanied by cheering and party poppers.
Ben pressed his ear against the floor, trying in vain to listen for knocks at the door or the bustle of excited guests.
The seconds ticked away to half past three.
Party time.
“Wish me luck,” Ben said. He ruffled his jet-black hair, which immediately fell back into its bowl-like shape. Then he straightened his very best jumper (the one with the big stripe, which his imaginary friend assured him brought out his eyes) and, with his heart thumping in his chest, he clambered down the ladder from his bedroom to the landing. The spiral staircase was all that stood between him and his first ever birthday party. Ben imagined the faces of his classmates waiting for him to appear. Cliff Pitchfork, the tallest boy in school … Hattie Blanket, with her excellent laugh … Ichabod Twist, who knew magic … they had all found it easy to ignore him until now.
Ben often wondered why he had no friends. For as long as he could remember, Ben’s dad had insisted that the family move house every year, relocating from one seaside town to another. Maybe that was the problem – maybe Ben knew his friendships could not last. Or maybe, he thought, he just wasn’t the sort of person that could make friends.
Not real ones, at least.
But what if this was the day all that changed? What if one of his classmates actually wanted to be his friend? Or what if they all wanted to be his friend? Ben hardly dared to imagine it … but imagine he did. He swelled with confidence as he made his way down the curling stairs and waded into a sea of balloons.
“I’m here,” he said aloud. “I’m—”
Ben stopped. There, in the middle of the room, knee-deep in balloons with party hats perched on their heads, stood his mum and dad…
…and no one else.
For a moment Ben wondered if everyone was hiding. Perhaps his classmates were crouched behind sofas and chairs or hiding under balloons, ready to jump out and wish him a happy birthday. But then Ben’s dad said:
“I’m so sorry, Benjy. But it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to make it.”
Ben felt his thumping heart sink into the depths of his chest.
“N-no one came?” he muttered.
“I phoned around,” said Ben’s dad, rubbing the back of his head. “But no one answered.”
“I’m sure they would have loved to come,” added Ben’s mum, trying to sound positive. “They’re probably just … busy.”
Not for the first time, Ben pushed his feelings deep into the pit of his stomach. And he imagined.
“It … it doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “The Gorblimey’s here.”
“The who?” asked Ben’s dad. “Oh, him.”
Even though the Gorblimey was imaginary, Ben could picture him quite clearly – he was a sort of monster: hairy, round and as black as an eclipse, with kind, bright eyes, curved horns and a yellow-orange candle flame forever flickering in the air just above his head. The Gorblimey was loyal and kind and could shrink to fit in Ben’s pocket and bounce right over a house and eat almost anything. And, most importantly, he was always there when Ben needed him.
“No, no, that won’t do at all – this is a real party for real people!” Ben’s dad continued. He urgently began gathering up balloons, horns and party poppers. “Come on, let’s turn this into a door-to-door party!” he declared, stuffing handfuls of biscuits into his pockets. “Knock, knock! Who’s there? Ben’s birthday, that’s who! We’ll take Ben’s birthday to every house on the island!”
“Bob, that’s literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” tutted Ben’s mum as Ben’s dad blew loudly on a party horn. “And it was your idea to move us to this grotty little island.”
“It’s OK, really,” said Ben, desperate to stop the inevitably humiliating door-to-door party before it started. “The Gorblimey’s here. We can—”
“No!” Ben’
s dad suddenly interrupted. “This isn’t a party for imaginary friends. You’re ten now, Ben. You’re too old for this sort of nonsense.”
“Says the man who chooses to spend every free moment alone, building a boat out of matchsticks,” noted Ben’s mum.
“It’s not a boat, it’s a ship – and that’s not the point,” said Ben’s dad. “Ben needs real friends.”
“And one day I’m sure he’ll make some but in the meantime he has his Gorblimey,” insisted Ben’s mum. “What harm can it do?”
“Look around,” snapped Ben’s dad. “If Ben didn’t have imaginary friends, maybe the other children would have wanted to come to his party!”
That was too hard for Ben to hear. With tears in his eyes, he ran towards the front door in a flurry of flying balloons. Ben heard his dad cry, “I didn’t mean— Wait!” but with a slam of the door, Ben was gone.
Ben ran outside into the cold, damp fog and all the way down to the beach. At the edge of the water he slumped into the knee-soaking sand and stared out over the sea.
Unlike his dad, who could spend hours staring wistfully over any stretch of grey, mist-laden water, Ben hated the ocean. It was so huge that it always made him feel small and alone. So Ben did what he always did when he felt small and alone – he imagined the Gorblimey was right there with him.
But this time, Ben screwed up his eyes and imagined harder than ever before. You could say he let his imagination run wild. For the first time, he imagined that the Gorblimey was real.
Ben opened his eyes … and found himself still utterly alone. Not even the distant caw of a seagull could be heard. Ben stared at nothing, listened to the faint sound of waves lapping against his knees, and sighed.
Then, through the lazy, rolling fog, he noticed a dot of flickering light suddenly appear. It looked like a candle flame, hovering in the air, just above the glistening waves. Ben gazed at the light as it moved slowly towards him. He peered closer.
There was something in the water – a dark shape, just beneath the surface.
And it was heading straight for him.
Ben froze as the shape rose slowly out of the water. The fog was so thick that he couldn’t make out what it was but it was moving slowly towards him. This thing was alive, and as dark as shadows. At first Ben thought it was a dog, or perhaps a person, but there was no way it could be either. Ben held his breath, gazing slowly upwards. The thing loomed over him, peering through large eyes. Ben gasped and slapped his hand over his mouth.
“Can’t be…” he whispered.
But it was.
It was the Gorblimey.
The monster was exactly as Ben had imagined him: a plump, hairy thing, just a little taller than Ben and covered from head to toe in sodden fur so black that it seemed to drink any light that touched it. Coiled horns framed round, curious eyes, which almost seemed to glow. The Gorblimey let out a gentle chirping sound like a bird, and his candle flame flickered a bright yellow.
“H-how?” was all Ben could mutter as he got to his feet.
The Gorblimey let out a cheerful purr. Ben held out his hand. As ink-black fur enveloped his fingers, Ben laid his palm upon the monster’s round belly. It was as warm as an electric blanket, and Ben could feel two hearts beating slowly.
The Gorblimey was real.
“Where did you come from?” Ben uttered, not quite able to believe his own eyes.
The Gorblimey hooted, twice. Then he held out a furry finger and pressed it lightly upon Ben’s forehead.
“Did … did I imagine you?” Ben whispered.
The Gorblimey nodded and the flame above his head glowed a warm, happy orange.
Without thinking, Ben waved his hand over the flame. It was ice-cold. Ben gasped again and the Gorblimey let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
“Ben!” came a sudden cry from the fog. Then another voice.
“Ben, are you out here?”
“Mum! Dad!” said Ben as the Gorblimey hooted nervously. Ben took the monster’s hairy hand. “It’s OK, it’s my mum and dad,” he assured him. “They’re not going to believe what’s—”
“There you are!” Ben’s dad cried, finally spotting Ben through the mist. “Benjy, come back inside and let’s talk ab— AAARGH!”
As the Gorblimey emerged through a haze of fog, Ben’s dad let out a scream that was so loud it scattered seagulls from nearby chimneys. The Gorblimey immediately panicked. His candle flame flashed a bright blue and he scooped up Ben in his arms.
Ben heard a strange, high-pitched whistle emanating from every inch of the monster. He sounded like he was about to pop. Then:
The Gorblimey launched them high into the air as if he’d been fired out of a cannon. By the time Ben’s mum had called his name, both he and the Gorblimey had disappeared into the clouds.
The Gorblimey soared high above the rooftops, with Ben held firmly in his arms. Ben screamed until his breath ran out.
As they arced through the sky, he saw the Gorblimey’s candle flame still glowing blue with fear. A moment later, the monster began plummeting towards the ground. Ben saw the road rushing towards them. In seconds they would crash on to grey tarmac. “Oh no, no no!” he cried in horror. “GORBLI—”
The Gorblimey bounced on the ground like a ball and launched back into the air as if he was made from rubber.
“AARGHahahaha!” Ben howled, so relieved that he wasn’t dead that he screamed and laughed at the same time. The Gorblimey, too, let out a deep, echoing chuckle and his candle flame flickered a calm yellow. As the Gorblimey arced through the air and seagulls scattered in fear, Ben felt his face warmed by a streak of sunlight breaking between grey-white clouds.
The pair of them bounced all over the island, past Mr Pinchpenny’s You’ll Be Lucky Casino, past the abandoned fairground with its long-deserted ghostly rides, past the burntout pier, past Grundy Island Zoo with its one sad giraffe … even as far as the crazy golf course where Ben’s dad worked.
After a little more bouncing, Ben and the Gorblimey settled on the edge of a high chalk cliff. They sat on soft, dewy grass and stared out over the ocean. It was late afternoon and the sun, hazy and half hidden behind cloud, had begun its slow descent to the horizon.
“My dad says you should never let your imagination run away with you,” said Ben, peering out over the waves. “But I’m glad I imagined you.”
The Gorblimey chirruped loudly. Then it let out a series of ringing cheeps, which Ben somehow understood perfectly.
“‘Friends’? You mean, us?” Ben asked. Despite having imagined the Gorblimey in the first place, he was still surprised to hear the monster call him his friend. The Gorblimey nodded and let out a loud toot. “Yes! Of course! We’re best friends. Best friends forever,” Ben agreed. He felt a tear welling from the corner of his eye and quickly wiped it away. The Gorblimey tweeted happily and put a hairy arm round Ben’s shoulder.
As the pair of them stared out to sea, it is not an overstatement to say that Ben Bunsen felt happier than ever before.
“I wonder how you went from being in here,” Ben said at last, tapping the side of his head with his finger, “to being out here. What do you even call that?”
“Unimaginary,” said a voice. Ben and the Gorblimey turned. Further along the cliff edge stood a lone figure, looking out over the ocean. He was tall, impossibly lean and dressed in a tailored suit with a long blue tailcoat and breeches, and buckled shoes over white stockings. The stranger wore a three-peaked hat that cast such a dark shadow over his face that Ben could barely make it out.
“Wh … what?” said Ben.
“That is what you call it when an imaginary friend travels from ‘in here to out here’ said the stranger, mimicking Ben’s head-tapping. “When is an IF not an IF? When it is not simply imagined … it is unimagined. When it becomes unimaginary.”
“Unimaginary…?” Ben repeated. He glanced at the Gorblimey, a shiver running down his spine.
“Truth is, some folk have wild imaginations,” the
stranger continued, still gazing out to sea. His voice clattered like pebbles shaken in a bucket. “The wilder the imagination, the wilder the unimaginary…”
Ben edged towards the stranger, craning to see the face hidden beneath the hat.
“How … how do you know that?” he asked.
The stranger laughed, his cackle dry as old sticks, and spun towards Ben.
“Oh, the things I know would curl your toes,” he replied, lifting his hat off his head.
Ben stared into the face of a skull. Milk-white eyeballs floated in the skull’s eye sockets and seemed to stare into Ben’s soul.
“My name is Keys … Skeleton Keys,” it said. “And I have come for you.”
Ben’s second terrified scream of the day echoed across Grundy Island. Before the skeleton could act, a panicking Gorblimey leaped skywards again, grabbing Ben and bouncing away in an instant.
“I will find you, Benjamin Bunsen!” the skeleton cried as it watched Ben and the Gorblimey disappear into the clouds. Ben heard his name echo through the air.
The skeleton knew his name.
“Take us home, Gorblimey!” Ben cried. The monster duly obliged, returning Ben to his house in three great bounces. They had barely landed when Ben’s mum and dad raced out of the front door.
“Ben! Are you all right?” cried Ben’s dad as the Gorblimey placed Ben gently on the ground.
“W-what is that?” Ben’s mum asked. The Gorblimey chirped nervously but Ben put his hand on the monster’s arm and smiled.
“This is the Gorblimey,” he said. “And he’s my best friend.”
Five minutes later, everyone was sitting round the table in the front room. An old radio played the local shipping forecast to no one in particular, and a log fire crackled away in the corner. In the middle of the table stood a large, near-complete replica of a pirate ship, built entirely from matches by Ben’s dad. The ship took up nearly the whole table, as it had in their previous house, and the house before that. Usually, they would crane to look over it during dinner but today Ben’s mum and dad peered over matchstick masts at a monster.
