Mr Gum and the Secret Hideout (3 page)

‘Right you are!’ cackled Billy, shovelling a pile of horse bladders on to the fire where they exploded in a dirty shower known as ‘Butcher’s Fireworks’. ‘But why we doin’ all this again, Mr Gum, me old Spanish woodworm?’

‘Cos it’s our flippin’ masterplan, Billy me boy,’ growled Mr Gum,
BOING!
ing higher than ever. ‘The more we heat up them stale meats, the more poison gases goes up that massive chimney an’ in the air. An’ the more poison gases goes in the air, the hotter an’ nastier it gets in Lamonic Bibber. It’s called “Townal Warmin’”.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ laughed Billy. ‘“Townal Warmin”’. Now I remember. An’ once that stupid town gets hot enough, then –’

‘SPLASH!’
finished Mr Gum, grinning so nastily that a nearby mouse dissolved with fright. ‘The weather goes crazy, Lamonic Bibber falls in the sea an’ then we rule over it forever!’

‘How we gonna rule over it if it’s fallen in the sea?’ asked Billy through a mouthful of coal dust.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Mr Gum. ‘I never thought of that. Well, forget it. We’ll just stick to destroyin’ Lamonic Bibber by makin’ it fall in the sea. That’s evil enough for now. OI!’ he shouted. ‘Why ain’t you shovellin’ that meat? Get back to work, you lazy old trumpet!’

‘But there ain’t no more meat to shovel,’ whined Billy. ‘Them horse bladders was the last of it. We run out, see?’

‘Well, take yer stupid cap off an’ chuck it on the blaze!’ yelled Mr Gum. So Billy took off his butcher’s cap and threw it on the furnace, where it quickly burnt to a crisp.

‘Now burn yer apron!’ yelled Mr Gum. ‘Now burn yer shirt! Now burn yer trousers! Now burn yer boots! Now burn yer socks! Now burn yer pant – nah, on second thoughts keep yer pants on, you disgustin’ lettuce.’

‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Billy as he stood there in his grubby grey boxer shorts. ‘We burnt all the meat. We burnt me clothes. There’s nothin’ left to burn.’

‘What we gonna do now?’ scowled Mr Gum, stroking his beard into the shape of a gigantic red question mark.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said Billy. ‘We gotta go an’ get more meat off that strange little bloke what helped us out last time.’

‘It’s true,’ growled Mr Gum. ‘But we gotta be crafty, Billy der Willy der Wills. We gotta be so crafty ’bout it that even we hardly know what we’re up to ourselves. What’s that thing called when it’s all dark an’ there’s that stupid thing in the sky what’s not the sun but the other one what’s not so big?’

‘Night time?’ suggested Billy.

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ grinned Mr Gum. ‘That’s the time to do our evils, Billy me boy – “Night time”. When no one can see us, when no one can catch us an’ when no one can stinkin’ well stop us!’

O
ld Granny sat out on the high street, creaking back and forth in her ancient rocking chair from before the War.

FLOOOB!

BUUFFFFSH!

‘Terrible days!’ she cried, as a cloud plummeted from the sky and landed on her hat. The air was hot and sticky, and so thick that Old Granny’s raspy lungs could hardly breathe it down. But in all her life she’d never missed a single day of sitting outside in her chair, ‘And I’m not going to let a bit of weather stop me now!’ said she.

SLUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRP!

Old Granny took a thoughtful suck at a six-mile long drinking-straw that led directly to her secret sherry supply. And she shook her head so hard that you could hear the sherry swishing around inside her skull.

‘Terrrible days! Terrible days!’ she cried. ‘Terrible days indeed!’

Old Granny’s drunken words followed Polly and Friday as they walked along the high street, kicking up clouds of dust from the cracked, dried pavement.

‘Right, Mr Friday,’ said Polly, wiping a single bead of sweat from her brow and a whole necklace of sweat from her neck. ‘We gots to find out who’s doin’ all them pollutions. It’s time for THE DEPARTMENT OF CLOUDS AN’ YOGURTS to gets to work!’

‘Are you the one who’s doing all the pollution?’ they asked a little girl called Peter.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just playing with my doll.’

‘Are you the one who’s doing all the pollution?’ they asked David Casserole, the town mayor.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just playing with
my
doll.’

‘Are you the one who’s doing all the pollution?’ they asked William Shakespeare.

‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘You see, I’ve been dead for about five hundred years. Now leave me alone, I’m trying to write
Hamlet II – Yorick’s Revenge
.’

‘FRUSTRATERS!’ exclaimed Polly at the end of a long morning’s work. ‘We done millions of ’vestigations an’ no one knows nothin’, an’ it’s all boilin’ hot an’ itchy an’ I had ENOUGHS!’

‘Let’s go back to the office,’ suggested Friday.

But just then, they came upon a forlorn-looking fellow sitting in a silver birdcage at the side of the road. It was Crazy Barry Fungus.

‘Tweet tweet?’ he said hopefully. ‘Tweet tweet?’

Now, Crazy Barry Fungus suffered from a rare medical condition called ‘Stupidity’. Or in other words, he thought he was a chaffinch. Most people just passed him by as if he wasn’t there. But Polly was far too kind-hearted for that.

‘Here you goes, little birdy,’ she said, fishing a handful of birdseed from her skirt pocket.

‘Tweet tweet,’ said Crazy Barry, licking it gratefully from her palm. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for him in years.

‘I don’t expect he can help us,’ said Friday. ‘He’s only a chaffinch. He knows nothing of the danger our town is in.’

But as Crazy Barry Fungus watched his visitors go, a gleam of light came into his eyes. ‘Tweet tweet,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet.’

Back at the office, Polly and Friday coloured in all the places they’d visited on the map. It was quite fun. Polly did her bits in pink and Friday did his bits in ‘bunch-paraka’, which was a new colour he had invented that morning.

‘Well, Mr Polly,’ said Friday. ‘We covered quite a lot of the town today – but there are still a few places left to investigate. Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’

So Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on –

‘Hey, are you playin’ with the photocopier again, Mr Friday?’ said Polly.

‘Sorry,’ said Friday. ‘Hey, let’s have a rubber-band fight!’

But just then, the office door flew open – and there stood Crazy Barry Fungus, flapping away in his birdcage, his face full of excitement and his mouth full of birdseed.

‘Tweet!’ he cried as he struggled through the doorway. ‘Tweet tweet!’

‘I think he wants to tell us somethin’!’ said Polly. ‘Come in, Mr Crazy! Come in!’

Very carefully, Crazy Barry Fungus bent his head and began spitting out a message on the floor. A message written in birdseed.

‘I’m sorry I have to spell out messages in birdseed,’ he spelt, ‘but I cannot talk as I am only a chaffinch. But you were kind to me earlier, and now I want to help you in return. For I see –’

Then he ran out of birdseed and had to lick it all up off the floor and start spitting it out again to carry on with his message.

‘I see a lot of strange things on my travels,’ wrote Barry Fungus, ‘and lately I have seen something very peculiar. Something very –’

Then he ran out of birdseed and had to lick it all up again.

‘This is really, really disgusting,’ said Friday – but Polly hushed him.

‘Something very peculiar indeed,’ spat Barry Fungus. ‘I have seen mysterious comings and goings down by the river. Yes, down by the river, when it’s late and only us chaffinches are awake!’

‘Comin’s an’ goin’s down by the river?’ said Polly. ‘But what’s that gots to do with them pollutions?’

Crazy Barry Fungus ran out of birdseed and licked it up again.

‘I do not know,’ he spat. ‘Maybe something. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe I am just a silly old featherbrain who doesn’t know what he’s on about. But –’

Lick lick lick. Spit spit spit.

‘I think you should go down to the river tonight and investigate. That is all. Good day to you both.’

And – GULP-IT-DOWN-CHAFFINCH-BOY-YOU-GOTTA-GULP-IT-DOWN! – he swallowed all the birdseed in a single almighty gulp.

‘Thank you,’ said Polly as the helpful creature hopped out of the office.

‘You’re welcome, don’t mention it,’ replied Crazy Barry Fungus in a deep booming voice. ‘I mean – tweet tweet tweet, I can’t talk. I’m only a chaffinch!’

And off he hopped in his silver cage, chirping all the way.

‘What a lunatic,’ marvelled Friday, who was busy measuring the desk to see if it had secretly shrunk since they’d last seen it. Friday had a theory that desks were always trying to shrink, in order to fool people.

‘Well, lunatic or not, he’s the only one what done helped us so far,’ said Polly. ‘I says we go down to the river tonight to sees what’s whats!’

N
ight time, and two mysterious figures were creeping through the darkness in their hobnail boots. Actually they weren’t all that mysterious. They were Mr Gum and Billy, obviously. Although Billy had burned all his clothes back in Chapter Three, he was wearing a brand new uniform of butcher’s apron, cap and trousers. And why? Because butchers are like lizards and can grow their skins back at any time.