Today will be a perfect day – unless they find me again. At that point I will no longer want to be Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective. I’m an optimist though and I’m sure I can get through the day without …
It’s a usual winter Saturday in Groaningsea. The clouds are so black they could have been up Gran’s chimney. Dad’s gone off, as usual, to open his second hand book shop and Mum’s roped me in to help with the weekly dusting down of the Floating Wreck Lighthouse Museum. I get paid for it.
Once inside, the wind whistles around the lighthouse as if it is a ghost who’s frightened itself with its hollow eyes and black tongue. I don’t care. I’ve got a tatty copy of a Sherlock Holmes mystery and a nice, full bag of Bull’s Eyes. The problem is how to get from under The Thunderous Mother’s steely eye. Being the detective that I am, I know that she isn’t fond of The Boris Death commemorative room. So I offer to dust in there.
I suppose I’d better explain about the Boris room; for when I become a famous detective and my diaries are read world wide after my demise. Boris Death is a famous, horror movie star who was born in Groaningsea. In fact, he is the only notable person, except yours truly, of course, ever to come out of this small seaside town. The commemorative room tells the story of Boris’s ghoulish career. There is Frankenstein Boris in a glass case which lights up and makes the noise of a thunderstorm. A Dracula Boris, bites the neck of a woman in a white nightdress. Whilst a figure of Boris as a werewolf eats live sheep. The best is a wax figure of Boris dressed as Dr Jekyll looking through a mirror. It is not his own reflection which peers back but that of the gruesome, distorted Hyde!
Anyway, you get the picture – yours truly is sitting there with his feet up on a Boris coffin with a mouth full of Bull’s Eye’s, a duster in one hand and my tatty Sherlock in the other. Every time I turn a page, I flick the duster. I have a sneaky read and get paid 50p for my dusting efforts at the end of it. I silently congratulate myself on being the master of The Good Life and then…
Mum comes in and tells me to go back home to let Dad know that she is finishing off the museum paperwork. The Sherlock goes in my bag and the Bull’s Eyes in the inside jacket pocket. I am ready for home to put my feet up and watch Doctor Who on the telly.
It’s dark outside; the cutting wind attacks my cheeks when I get on my pride and joy, my red Chopper bike. As I lift my foot onto the pedals, my bag is ripped over my shoulder nearly knocking my head off. A dark, greasy head that looks like a flattened bat looms in front of me. Warty, heavily ringed hands empty my bag onto the floor and then throw it down in disgust. The Toad and his cronies have found me again.
“Empty your pockets kid,” he growls and then spits through the slit in his teeth onto my bag. I hand over my 50p. He snatches it, kicks my Chopper and struts off with his sidekicks Ferret and Snot at his platform booted heels.
I pick up my tatty Sherlock and wipe my bag clean. I wish as hard as I can that one day, I will be able to stand up to The Toad – is there anybody or anything, anywhere in the universe listening to me?