Horrid Henry's Christmas (5 page)

Wait. What about some soap?

Horrid Henry ran into the bathroom. Yes! There was a tempting bar of blue soap going to waste in the soap dish by the bathtub. True, it had been used once or twice, but a bit of smoothing with his fingers would sort that out. In fact, Polly and Paul could share this present, it was such a good one.

Whistling, Horrid Henry wrapped up the soap in sparkling reindeer paper. He was a genius. Why hadn’t he ever done this before? And a lovely rag from under the sink would be perfect as a gag for Vera.

That just left Peter and all his present problems would be over. A piece of chewing gum, only one careful owner? A collage of candy wrappers that spelled out
Worm
? The unused comb Peter had given
him
last Christmas?

Aha. Peter loved bunnies. What better present than a picture of a bunny?

It was the work of a few moments for Henry to draw a bunny and slash a few blue lines across it to color it in. Then he signed his name in big letters at the bottom. Maybe he should be a famous artist and not a poet when he grew up, he thought, admiring his handiwork. Henry had heard that artists got paid tons of cash just for stacking a few bricks or hurling paint at a white canvas. Being an artist sounded like a great job, since it left so much time for playing computer games.

Horrid Henry dumped his presents beneath the Christmas tree and sighed happily. This was one Christmas where he was sure to get a lot more than he gave. Whoopee! Who could ask for anything more?

It was Christmas Eve at last. Every minute felt like an hour. Every hour felt like a year. How could Henry live until Christmas morning when he could get his hands on all his loot?

Mom and Dad were baking frantically in the kitchen.

Perfect Peter sat by the twinkling Christmas tree scratching out “Silent Night” over and over again on his cello.

“Can’t you play something else?” snapped Henry.

“No,” said Peter, sawing away. “This is the only Christmas carol I know. You can move if you don’t like it.”

“You move,” said Henry.

Peter ignored him.

“Siiiiiiiii—lent Niiiiight,” screeched the cello.

AAARRRGH.

Horrid Henry lay on the sofa with his fingers in his ears, double-checking his choices from the Toy Heaven catalog. Big red X’s appeared on every page, to help you-know-who remember all the toys he absolutely had to have. Oh please, let everything he wanted leap from its pages and into Santa’s sack. After all, what could be better than looking at a huge glittering stack of presents on Christmas morning, and knowing that they were all for you?

Oh please let this be the year when he finally got everything he wanted!

His letter to Santa Claus couldn’t have been clearer.

Dear Santa Claus,

I want loads and loads and loads of cash, to make up for the puny amount you put in my stocking last year. And a Robomatic Supersonic Space Howler Deluxe plus attachments would be great too. I have asked for this before, you know!!! And the Terminator Gladiator fighting kit. I need lots more DayGlo slime and comics and a Mutant Max poster and the new Zapatron Hip-Hop Dinosaur. This is your last chance.

Henry

P.S. Oranges are NOT presents!!!!!
P.P.S. Peter asked me to tell you to give me all his presents as he doesn’t want any.

How hard could it be for Santa Claus to get this right? He’d asked for the Space Howler last year, and it never arrived. Instead, Henry got …vests. And handkerchiefs. And books. And clothes. And a—bleuccccck—jigsaw puzzle and a jump rope and a tiny Waterblaster instead of the mega-sized one he’d specified. Yuck! Santa Claus obviously needed Henry’s help.

Santa Claus is getting old and doddery, thought Henry. Maybe he hasn’t got my letters. Maybe he’s lost his reading glasses. Or—what a horrible thought—maybe he was delivering Henry’s presents by mistake to some other Henry. Eeeek! Some yucky, undeserving Henry was probably right now this minute playing with Henry’s Terminator Gladiator sword, shield, axe, and trident. And enjoying his Intergalactic Samurai Gorillas. It was so unfair!

And then suddenly Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. Why had he never thought of this before? All his present problems would be over. Presents were far too important to leave to Santa Claus. Since he couldn’t be trusted to bring the right gifts, Horrid Henry had no choice. He would have to ambush Santa Claus.

Yes!

He’d hold Santa Claus hostage with his Goo-Shooter, while he rummaged in his present sack for all the loot he was owed. Maybe Henry would keep it all. Now
that
would be fair.

Let’s see, thought Horrid Henry. Santa Claus was bound to be a slippery character, so he’d need to booby-trap his bedroom. When you-know-who sneaked in to fill his stocking at the end of the bed, Henry could leap up and nab him. Santa Claus had a lot of explaining to do for all those years of stockings filled with oranges and walnuts instead of chocolate and cold hard cash.

So, how best to capture him?

Henry considered.

A bucket of water above the door.

A jump rope stretched tight across the entrance, guaranteed to trip up intruders.

A web of string crisscrossed from bedpost to door and threaded with bells to ensnare nighttime visitors.

And let’s not forget strategically scattered whoopee cushions.

His plan was foolproof.

Loot, here I come, thought Horrid Henry.

Horrid Henry sat up in bed, his Goo-Shooter aimed at the half-open door where a bucket of water balanced. All his traps were laid. No one was getting in without Henry knowing about it. Any minute now, he’d catch Santa Claus and make him pay up.

Henry waited. And waited. And waited. His eyes started to feel heavy and he closed them for a moment.

There was a rustling at Henry’s door. Oh my gosh, this was it! Henry lay down and pretended to be asleep.

Horrid Henry reached for his GooShooter.

A huge shape loomed in the doorway.

Henry braced himself to attack.

“Doesn’t he look sweet when he’s asleep?” whispered the shape.

“What a little snugglechops,” whispered another.

Sweet? Snugglechops?

Horrid Henry’s fingers itched to let Mom and Dad have it with both barrels.

Henry could see it now. Mom covered in green goo. Dad covered in green goo. Mom and Dad snatching the Goo-Shooter and wrecking all his plans and throwing out all his presents and banning him from TV forever …hmmm. His fingers felt a little less itchy.

Henry lowered his Goo-Shooter. The bucket of water wobbled above the door.

Yikes! What if Mom and Dad stepped into his Santa traps? All his hard work— ruined.

“I’m awake,” snarled Henry.

The shapes stepped back. The water stopped wobbling.

“Go to sleep!” hissed Mom.

“Go to sleep!” hissed Dad.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Henry.

“Checking on you,” said Mom. “Now go to sleep or Santa Claus will never come.”

He’d better, thought Henry.

Horrid Henry woke with a jolt.
AAARRGGH! He’d fallen asleep. How could he? Panting and gasping Henry switched on the light. Phew. His traps were intact. His stocking was empty. Santa Claus hadn’t been yet.