Sunday morning. It’s pitch black. I route around for my torch. I can’t put the lights on, I might wake Mum and Dad and my cover will be blown. I am having an early start with my pal Bongo. The job is finding out what is going on at Boris Death’s old house. Recently things seem to be happening there. It has been empty for years. No-one dares to go near it, in case the ghost of Boris as a werewolf jumps out at them. It’s said that at midnight, he walks the grounds. The Toad said that he once saw Boris as Frankenstein but he didn’t flinch. In fact, the Toad reckons that he pulled a face at Frankenboris who duly ran off. I can’t say I blame him as The Toad is the ugliest person I have ever seen, apart from his mates Snot and Ferret.
I get dressed and am ready to go. I quietly open the bedroom door and sneak down the stairs. Hopefully, I will be back before The Thunderous Mother wakes from her Sunday morning lie in. I listen, I can hear Dad. He sounds like a foghorn calling out to other ships in the mist. No wonder Mum has to stuff her ears with dried up chewing gum.
Dad’s foghorn could have been a warning sound. I stand in the street ready to mount my Chopper bike and look at the mist. The sea fret dances around the street lights as if to music. Bongo had better be up and waiting. I’m starting to think this creeping around Boris Death’s old house at 6.30 on a Sunday morning is not such a great idea. I must go. I have to prove to myself that I’m not a total coward. I see myself when I am cornered by The Toad, Ferret and Snot – cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.
I make myself peddle down the street. Bongo sits on the wall with his chubby knees pulled up to his chest. I’m a bit flummoxed as to why he’s wearing shorts on a cruel January morning. I decide not to mention it but I can’t stop my eyes from staring at his muffin knees.
“Mum’s washed all my trousers except those bright orange ones Gran bought me for Christmas. You can see me a mile off in those,” he mutters glumly. It is hard not to laugh but I have to agree that we could hardly go undercover with Bongo resembling a giant tangerine.
The wind cuts into my cheeks as I pedal furiously against it. We stop when we reach the woods which surround Boris’s old house. The question is whether to leave our bikes at the edge of the wood and chance them being stolen or to wheel them with us to the house. It is 6.30 on a Sunday morning, the idea that our bikes might be spotted or stolen is mad compared to the thought of having to wheel them through the woods. We leave them propped up against an Oak tree.
I decide to go first. I am proving myself. I click my torch on and shine it in the clearing ahead. The white tail of a rabbit scuttling away bobs up and down before my eyes. The sea fret hangs around the trees like giant spiders’ webs. I feel a strong pulling on my jacket sleeve. Bongo has seen something. I turn quickly, shivers run down my spine. Who would have thought early morning could be as spooky as late nights?
“Have you got any Bull’s Eyes?” he hisses. I might have known. Bongo has two things on his mind – eating and playing the drums. I rustle around in my pocket and pull the bag out. Bongo’s crane like hand has a good rummage around and he grabs as many Bull’s Eyes as he can. We have been friends for years so I have learned a way of holding the bag so that he can get no more than four of my delicious offerings at one time. He crams them into his mouth so that his cheeks bulge.
We set off again. When we reach the clearing for the house I stop sharp and Bongo knocks into me.
“What did you stop for?” he asks. I put my finger to my lips and point towards the house. We both strain to look. The thinnest woman I have ever seen is standing on the weed covered terrace looking around. She has long, black hair, a white face and very red lips. We gulp.
“Is she a ghost?” whispers Bongo?
“No human dresses like that at 6.30a.m. on a Sunday morning,” I reply. We run.