Hamish and the WorldStoppers Read online

  He really missed his dad.

  ‘HEY YOU!’ shouted someone, very loudly indeed.

  Hamish stopped thinking about the blackbird incident and looked around. He was maybe halfway home from school, just past Slackjaw’s Motors.

  ‘YOU! HAMISH!’

  Hamish saw who it was.

  Oh, no. Keep walking!

  ‘C’MERE!’ shouted another voice. ‘I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, YOU LITTLE PIGSWIGGLER!’

  It was stinky little Scratch Tuft. And lolloping behind stinky little Scratch Tuft was the awful Mole Stunk.

  They were the worst. They were slippy, snidey, slimy little snakes with cruel eyes and pinched faces. And worse still, if Scratch and Mole were here, that meant Grenville Bile wouldn’t be far behind.

  Grenville Bile, who thought all his flab was pure muscle.

  Grenville Bile, who was always after the ‘fruits of his nose’.

  Grenville Bile, who thought he was so good at wrestling he could probably go to America and earn billions and billions, but said he wanted to stay at school so he could get his geography GCSE first.

  Grenville Bile . . . the Postmaster’s son!

  ‘YOU LITTLE WORMPIDDLER!’ yelled Mole.

  ‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’

  Hamish stopped walking and straightened his back to make himself look braver. He hated Scratch and Mole. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone? Scratch and Mole were the type of kids who trap spiders in jars and shake them while their skinny little legs clack together in glee. They were the type of kids who pee in bottles and leave them at bus stops in case anyone’s thirsty.

  They were the worst girls ever.

  And Hamish knew what they wanted. They wanted his Chomp bar.

  Hamish always carried a Chomp bar with him and Scratch and Mole were always trying to steal it. Sometimes they’d take it straight to Grenville as an offering. Scratch worshipped Grenville so much she had a poster of him on her wall. Mole worshipped him so much she’d found her birth certificate, scribbled out ‘Mole’ and written ‘Grenvilla’ on it instead, but apparently that didn’t count.

  Sighing, Hamish felt in his pockets, ready to give up his chocolate bar. But disaster! It was nowhere to be found! Then he remembered – he’d eaten it at lunchtime. His Chomp had been chomped!

  Seconds later, they were right in front of him. Even stretching out on their spindly little legs, they only came up to his nipples. Hamish caught a whiff of them. The rumour was that they smelled so bad that even stink-flies flew away from them, coughing and trying not to inhale.

  ‘I’m afraid I ate my Chomp already,’ explained Hamish, who couldn’t stop himself being helpful even at times like this.

  ‘SHUDDUP!’ yelled Mole.

  ‘SHUT YER MOUTH HOLE!’

  Their tiny hands were rifling through his bag now.

  Then his pockets.

  Then his other pockets.

  Hamish started to wish the world would stop again. He could escape, like the blackbird, if that happened. The girls would think he had simply vanished.

  Wait . . . what if . . . ?

  Hamish shut his eyes. If he could stop the world, that would be the coolest thing ever!

  So as Mole Stunk and Scratch Tuft pulled at his sleeves, checked in his socks and turned him right the way around . . . Hamish wished.

  He wished hard.

  He wished that the world would stop.

  He wished that the world would stop right now!

  He wished and wished and wished and suddenly all was very, very quiet indeed . . .

  He kept his eyes squeezed shut. Had he done it? Was he in control? Could it be true?

  Then he heard someone clear their throat.

  ‘Ach-eeeeeeeeeeem.’

  He opened one eye. Mole and Scratch were just staring at him.

  ‘WHY YOU GOT NO CHOMPS?’ spat Scratch. ‘YOU BETTA GETTA LOTTA CHOMPS TOMORROW!’

  ‘YEAH!’ yelled Mole. ‘YOU BETTA GET LIKE TWO MILLION CHOMPS BY TOMORROW BREAKTIME! OR ELSE WE’LL SQUIDDLE YOU LIKE A DIDDLER!’

  ‘THASS RIGHT!’ screeched Scratch. ‘WE’LL MUFFLE YOU UP LIKE A PING-PONG BALL!’

  Hamish just stood there and blinked while the stinky little girls grunted their way around him. Two million Chomps? That was loads! That was more than he could eat in a week!

  And two seconds later those dreadful, horrific little things ruffled his hair until it was all messed up and ran off cackling.

  Hamish knew they were probably going to tell Grenville Bile all about it.

  Tomorrow at school would not be fun, he decided.

  Little did he know it then, but tomorrow at school would be something else entirely.

  The Explorer

  At 13 Lovelock Close, Hamish’s mum was sitting down with the Starkley Post and eating her favourite biscuits.

  The story on the front page was

  MAN LEAVES TOWN,

  WILL PROBABLY COME

  BACK IN A BIT

  ‘Would you like a chocolate Mustn’tgrumble, Hamish?’ she asked.

  No way, thought Hamish. Mustn’tgrumbles are disgusting. They taste like sawdust and soil. Hamish couldn’t work out why more people didn’t grumble about Mustn’tgrumbles.

  ‘Do we have anything else?’ he asked, innocently, walking to the cupboard. Maybe Mum had gone mad and bought two million Chomps. You never know.

  But the cupboard was bare.

  ‘I need to run to Shop Til You Pop,’ said his mum, looking annoyed at herself. She’d just been so busy lately. Hamish’s mum worked at Starkley Town Council, in the Complaints Department – and that used to be the easiest job in the world, because no one ever had much to complain about in Starkley.

  But lately, for some strange reason, things had been getting a lot busier. Only slowly at first. But, more and more, people were finding things to be grumpy about.

  Mr Slackjaw of Slackjaw’s Motors kept complaining, because he was sure that someone kept borrowing his mopeds at night.

  And Madame Cous Cous, who ran the sweet shop, kept complaining that people sometimes asked for one sweet and then changed their mind and asked for another and THAT MEANS THEY SHOULD BE FORMALLY CAUTIONED AND THEN THROWN INTO JAIL.

  Hamish’s mum thought that might be taking things a bit far. But she had to take every complaint seriously. Although there was so much paperwork to do that sometimes she felt like lodging a complaint herself.

  (She never did, because she knew that would just mean even more paperwork.)

  Hamish’s mum ruffled his hair.

  ‘I’ll get you a couple of Chomps if that’s what you’re after. Or you could use your pocket money?’

  Hamish got £4 a week for doing odd jobs around the house.

  This is what he usually spent it on.

  40p: two Chomps from MADAME COUS COUS’S INTERNATIONAL WORLD OF TREATS.

  £1.50: the latest issue of the Captain Beetlebottom comic. Captain Beetlebottom was awesome. He had a beetle’s bottom! Though he also had the nose of a pony – so Hamish often wondered why he wasn’t called Captain Ponynose instead.

  £1: a ride on the Gap-toothed Otter. That was the greatest rollercoaster since the legendary Vomit Comet! Because Starkley was right by the sea, it was always the last place the travelling funfair stopped. It always parked up in a field by the woods, next to Farmer Jarmer’s sunflower field. And the Gap-toothed Otter was the biggest, tallest, spindliest, scariest ride of them all. Hamish would save all year round so he could go on the Gap-toothed Otter as many times as possible whenever the fair came to town. His record last year was twelve rides! It would have been thirteen, but he was sick in a bin and had to go home.

  £1: a charitable donation to the elderly gentleman who looked after the town clock and who had fought in the war.

  And 10p he saved for his old age. Hamish was pretty sensible like that.

  This week, though, he knew he was going to have to spend the whole lot and even maybe dip into his old-age fund too. All to m
ake sure Scratch and Mole didn’t squiddle him like a diddler.

  Hamish glanced out of the window.

  His next-door neighbour, Mr Ramsface, was playing cricket on his driveway with the two miniature Ramsfaces. The Ramsfaces were a strange little family who all played the ukulele together at night and sang unusual songs about boats. Sometimes it was the last thing Hamish heard at night. He would pretend he found it annoying, but actually he thought it was quite lovely.

  Little Billy Ramsface really only talked about giant squid, which made conversation quite tricky. Little Betty Ramsface really only talked about hens and why they all should wear little hats. Mrs Ramsface wrote very long folk songs about nothing in particular, while Mr Ramsface made weird costumes out of household rubbish, just to make his children laugh. Hamish sometimes watched from his window. Especially when he was missing his dad.

  Hamish glanced at his own driveway. It was empty as usual. He felt a quick wave of sadness wash over him as he looked at the spot where his dad’s car would once have been.

  ‘I suppose I better get the dinner on!’ said his mum, trying to keep things cheerful. She was only too aware how tough these last five months had been on the Ellerby family, ever since Boxing Day. ‘Chips and beans and squash tonight! Go and tell Jimmy, will you, chicken?’

  Jimmy was upstairs in his room as usual. He was listening to terrible music far too loudly.

  ‘Jimmy?’ said Hamish, standing at his door.

  Jimmy sighed.

  ‘My name is James?’ he said, sniffily, like it was a question. ‘And I would greatly appreciate it if this family would please refer to me as such?’

  Hamish blinked at his brother. When had he become so pompous? Oh, that’s right – when he turned fifteen.

  ‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ said Hamish. ‘I mean, James?’

  ‘Yes?’ his brother said, all snippy. ‘What is it? I’m very busy?’

  Why did he always say everything like it was a question? And anyone could see he wasn’t busy. Jimmy spent most of his time playing on his Xbox or trying to Skype with his girlfriend, lanky old Felicity Gobb. He’d go all soppy when he thought of her, like he was lost in a fog of Felicity Gobb. A Gobb-fog, Hamish called it. She always said everything like it was a question too, so Hamish actually preferred it when Jimmy and Felicity talked on Skype, because that meant she must be quite far away.

  Sorry – I mean, that must mean she must be quite far away?

  Also, whenever Felicity came round to the Ellerby house, she brought her little brother, Ratchett, and he was always burping and asking if he could take things home with him.

  Like: ‘Can I take this home with me?’

  ‘No, Ratchett. That’s our telly.’

  Or: ‘Can I take this home with me?’

  ‘No, Ratchett. That’s our Uncle Adrian.’

  Or: ‘Can I take this home with me?’

  ‘Ratchett – you are literally pointing at our house.’

  Didn’t stop him trying, though. So Hamish was much happier when Felicity and Jimmy spoke on Skype.

  ‘Mum says it’s chips and beans tonight. Is that okay?’ said Hamish.

  Jimmy sighed heavily.

  ‘Tell Mother I suppose if chips and beans must be forced upon me, I will bear it somehow?’

  And then he slammed his door shut in Hamish’s face and turned his music right up.

  For a second, Hamish just stood there staring at the door. He and Jimmy used to do everything together. They’d get into adventures. They’d pretend the garden was a tropical island and they were dastardly pirates. They’d ride their bikes through the woods, acting like they were in a high-speed car chase. They were inseparable. And do you know what? In the old days, if Jimmy had found out Mole and Scratch were giving Hamish a hard time, he’d have stepped in like a proper big brother. He’d have stepped in like Captain Beetlebottom. And he’d have definitely wanted to help Hamish understand why the world seemed to keep stopping . . .

  Now it was like Jimmy – I mean, James – didn’t have time for Hamish at all. It was all just . . . Gobb-fogs. Mum said Jimmy was hurting. That he missed Dad as much as Hamish did. She said that maybe he was being distant because he didn’t want to get hurt again. But Hamish still felt Jimmy had decided that his little brother was too young and immature to be interesting any more. And a small part of Hamish wondered that if he dealt with problems like Scratch Tuft and Mole Stunk himself then maybe Jimmy would be impressed. Maybe he’d even want to hang out with him again.

  Hamish went into his own room and sat down on his bed. He stared at the sunflower on his windowsill. Even that made him think about his dad. He was the one who’d put it there in the first place and now Hamish looked after it carefully, helping it thrive and grow, even though his dad wasn’t there to see it. How come everything had changed recently?

  His mum was doing her best to look after them while also holding down her job and keeping things cheerful. She always made sure they got chips and beans, or little things that made them happy. Hamish knew she missed his dad too. Some nights he was sure he could hear her crying, but she’d never say anything in the morning and Hamish didn’t feel brave enough to ask without upsetting her again.

  There was one thing he could rely on to make him happy, though.

  Hamish opened his bedside drawer and pulled out a small blue box. It had gold writing on it, which said: The Explorer. He flipped the box open.

  There it was, inside. Glinting in the light. Still ticking. The Explorer. His dad’s old watch. It never seemed to need winding up. But strangely, it always ran a bit fast. Hamish took good care of the watch. He would take it out of its box every day, give it a polish, correct the time and think of the day all those months ago his dad had given it to him.

  Hamish’s dad had been in sales. No one really knew what that meant. But he’d spent a lot of time away from Starkley, cruising down the motorways in the sleek Vauxhall Vectra his company had given him. He was always full of stories of magic and wonder when he returned, telling Hamish about amazing sounding places like ‘Guild-fjord’ or ‘Croydonia’. These were places where it seemed like anything could happen! Hamish would get the Boggle set ready while his dad would tell him stories of checking into Travelodges or Holiday Inns near motorway service stations – only to find out he was being followed by a group of angry Romanian spies. Or he’d find strange alien life forms trying to steal the sausages from his room-service tray. Or he’d stumble across a gang of devious international body smugglers while trying to pay for his parking.

  Hamish loved listening to his dad’s adventures. They’d sit and play until bedtime and he’d listen and listen and listen.

  Right up until that day when the Vauxhall hadn’t come home.

  Sometimes Hamish wondered if The Explorer had been a goodbye present. But he always stopped himself. After all, you give someone a goodbye present when you know you’re going away, don’t you? And his dad had just disappeared; he hadn’t known he was leaving. He couldn’t have left them on purpose.

  ‘Hamish! Jimmy! Dinnertime!’ shouted Hamish’s mum from downstairs, shaking him from thoughts of his dad.

  ‘It’s JAMES?’ shouted Jimmy, grumpily. ‘Does ANYBODY in this blinking house respect my name?’

  ‘I forgot you were James now!’ shouted his mum. ‘Sorry, Jimmy!’

  Hamish decided to wear his dad’s watch to school tomorrow.

  The Explorer would make him feel brave in the face of Scratch and Mole.

  Almost without thinking, Hamish glanced out of the window, just in case tonight was the night he would finally see his dad’s Vauxhall Vectra pulling back into their driveway. In case tonight was the night his dad finally came home.

  Flash!

  The next morning, Hamish had a lot on his mind.

  The whole world-stopping thing was troubling him, but even more pressingly he had two rather angry girls expecting a very large delivery of Chomps.

  Over breakfast he came up with a plan: all he h
ad to do was avoid Scratch and Mole at all costs.

  Hamish had worked out that to buy two million Chomp bars would mean saving his pocket money for 219 years. Either that or convincing his mum to sell their house and he wasn’t sure how well she’d respond to that. So avoidance was the only way forward.

  But if that failed, by raiding his old-age savings he’d managed to scrape together enough change to buy at least two Chomp bars. Hopefully, that would be enough to keep the ghastly, grubby girls off his back for a bit.

  ‘Right!’ yelled his mum, halfway out of the door. ‘See you tonight!’

  Hamish watched her hurry off down the driveway, scribbling lipstick over her face while all manner of things fell out of her bag. Every time she stooped to pick one up, something else fell out of another pocket.

  ‘Oops!’ she said, as change clattered all around her and her paperwork threatened to blow away in the wind.

  ‘Oops!’ she said, chasing some coins down the street, accidentally squiggling her lipstick over her cheeks and then watching her papers fly off in the opposite direction.

  Poor Mum, thought Hamish, setting off for school.

  As he passed the sign outside the newsagent’s advertising the Starkley Post, he took in the headline.

  MAN LEAVES TOWN

  That’s weird, he thought. It must be last week’s paper.

  But no, Hamish was wrong. It was today’s paper. The same story two weeks in a row? Well, that seems odd.

  Winterbourne School was quite a modern school. It had low buildings with wide windows, and a big yellow sign saying ‘Well, hello there!’ to welcome people in. It was much nicer than St Autumnal’s, down the road. That school looked like a big red prison, or somewhere wizards might go. The kids at St Autumnal were pretty stuck-up and the two schools didn’t really mix much.

  Outside the main door, Mr Longblather was talking to the headmistress, Frau Fussbundler. He was obviously being even more boring than usual, because she looked like a flower that was wilting in the rain. She kept saying things like ‘Well, anyway,’ and ‘Goodness, look at the time,’ but Mr Longblather didn’t seem to get the hint and just kept blah-blah-blah-ing away.