Hamish and the WorldStoppers Read online

  Hamish looked down at where she’d been standing.

  There was a chalk outline of two little feet. Her feet.

  He had seen her looking at him!

  Hamish suddenly knew he was not alone. The girl could move in the Pause too.

  He also knew he had bigger problems than Grenville Bile.

  And they had tusks.

  Nightfall

  That night, quite understandably, Hamish was too scared to fall asleep.

  The world had gone from fascinating to terrifying in the space of a Starkley afternoon.

  Hamish couldn’t get the things out of his mind. What were they? Why had they come?

  He’d begged Jimmy to let him sleep in his room with him, but Jimmy was in a foul mood. Felicity wasn’t returning his Skype requests or answering his texts, so he informed Hamish he would be ‘actually concentrating on composing some pretty dark poetry this eventide?’

  Robin had called round and Hamish tried to work up the courage to tell him about the evil, lolloping monsters. But then Robin screamed, because he thought he saw a burglar that turned out to be just his own reflection in the mirror. He told Hamish he’d better go home and have a lie-down after that, especially because it would be getting dark in a couple of hours.

  Lastly, Hamish had tried to talk to his mum. But she was so overwhelmed by a mountain of paperwork that he lost all confidence. She kept tutting at a big red graph on her laptop and saying, ‘Oh dear me, what now?’. How do you bring up the subject of enormous, slithering, white-faced monsters leaping all over town, when someone is up to their elbows in silly complaints about how much a pineapple costs, or how their windows keep cracking, or how someone thinks a dog looked at them funny?

  But the really bad thing was this.

  Since he’d gone to bed, Hamish had realised that it’s one thing when the world stops during the day. It’s easy to tell when it happens. The silence is the first thing you notice, like someone turning off a television. And it’s light in the day, so you see it all: you see the car fumes that freeze from exhaust pipes. You see the way cars stop in the middle of the road as they prepare to turn left or right, their orange indicator light now no longer flashing – just on. You see people chatting outside silent cafes, not realising their conversation has paused and the thoughts they are sharing hang between them. You see the dog by the tree with his leg cocked into the air, starting what it will never know will be the longest pee of its life.

  In short, there are things you can notice when the world stops during the day.

  But at night?

  Well, at night, it’s just you.

  In your room.

  On your own.

  In the dark.

  Who knows what could be going on outside?

  Who knows what could be outside?

  This is what slowly began to scare Hamish as he lay there, the covers pulled up right to his nose. He held his breath and just listened, trying to hear anything that might prove the world was still going and he was safe.

  But everything was quiet. He couldn’t even hear his mum doing the dishes or watching the news, because she’d gone to bed ages ago.

  Hamish felt very alone. Had the world Paused? Were the things coming?

  And finally, in the distance, he heard the bark of a dog.

  Hamish relaxed his tense shoulders, and slept, and began to dream . . .

  It was a music lesson at school.

  Everything had been pretty normal, until Hamish noticed one of the tubas had grown legs and started dancing. No one else seemed to think this was strange. Only Hamish could see the dancing tuba and he didn’t know whether to tell anyone.

  The dancing tuba (who seemed to be called Pablo) craned its neck and nodded with its fatter end at the window.

  There was a blackbird there.

  Hamish and the blackbird were flying high now, way up in the sky above Starkley, through cloud after cloud. Hamish was seeing the town in a way no other kid has ever seen it. The blackbird was showing him the way home.

  They landed on his window ledge and Hamish clambered inside. He noticed he was in his pyjamas now. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up tight.

  And just as he was drifting off, there was a

  of light. He opened his eyes as his heart began to race and another

  lit up a silhouette at his window.

  Dad? Was it his dad?

  But a final slow

  showed Hamish the horrible truth.

  There was a monster at his window. It just stood there, now lit by the moon, staring into his room. He could see the breath rising from its nose. He could see the tusks.

  Hamish couldn’t move.

  He knew it had come for him.

  ‘Did you sleep well, chicken?’ asked his mum, over breakfast.

  She was getting ready for work. Monday was going to be tough. Mind you, every day was difficult nowadays. The complaints were really flooding in. Mr Slackjaw was now more certain than ever that something was going on with his mopeds. Old Mr Neate had written his 300th furious letter about the town clock never running on time. The only thing people weren’t complaining about was not having enough to complain about.

  Hamish’s mum was sure that it was just a matter of time though.

  Hamish was still in his ‘H’ pyjamas. He was pretty tired. He’d stopped being scared by the dream though. He was more fascinated by Pablo the dancing tuba. If dreams were supposed to mean something, what did a shimmying Spanish brass section mean? Hamish decided that bit probably didn’t mean much at all.

  But, if there was one thing last night had taught him, it was that he didn’t want to be alone. Not the next time there was a Pause - no way.

  And there was only one person who could do what he could do.

  He needed to find the girl with the blue streak in her hair.

  Something is Amiss!

  The first thing Hamish noticed as he walked into the playground that day was the noise.

  An enormous group of kids were cheering and punching the air.

  ‘Go on!’ one of them shouted.

  ‘Get stuck in!’ shouted another.

  ‘Wahey!’

  Hamish could only see their backs, but he knew exactly what was happening.

  There was a fight.

  Fights were rather unusual at Winterbourne. The school motto was:

  COME

  ON

  EVERYBODY,

  SETTLE

  DOWN

  But every once in a while someone got into an argument that spilled over into something angrier. Hamish wondered who it could be and decided it was probably Grenville as usual.

  But then Hamish spotted Grenville over to one side, just watching, with his mouth wide open. He was wearing The Explorer.

  ‘YOU RING­WORM!’

  Hamish frowned, turning back to the crowd. He knew that voice.

  ‘YOU HOLD STILL, YOU OLD GOAT!’

  It couldn’t be . . .

  ‘YOU LICKSPITTLE!’ shouted the other person. ‘GERROFF ME!’

  Hamish pushed through the crowd to get closer . . . and he had to blink once or twice to make sure what he was seeing was real.

  ‘I WILL HAMMER YOU LIKE A PEANUT, MARGOT FUSSBUNDLER!’ yelled Mr Longblather, his face bright red and his voice quite strained.

  ‘I WILL SIMMER YOU LIKE A SWEATY ONION, EVER LONGBLATHER!’ yelled Frau Fussbundler, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground. She had Mr Longblather in a headlock and was flicking his ear with one long finger.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Hamish, finding Robin at the front.

  ‘They just went crazy!’ his friend replied. ‘Frau Fussbundler was using Mr Longblather’s favourite brown mug and he strolled right up to her and threatened to put her in detention!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So she poured her coffee all over his shoes!’

  ‘His shoes?’

  ‘His favourite shoes! So he got his whistle out and blew it really close to he
r face! So she got her marker pen out and drew a bottom on his forehead!’

  ‘She did what?’

  ‘Then he tweaked her nose. And then she flicked his ear. And then before anyone knew what was happening they were rolling around on the floor like a couple of toddlers.’

  ‘I’LL WRAP YOU UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS PRESENT AND POST YOU TO BELGIUM!’ yelled Frau Fussbundler.

  ‘YEAH?’ replied Mr Longblather, who no one had ever seen be this exciting! ‘WELL, I’LL STRETCH YOUR EARS UNTIL YOU CAN SAIL THERE YOURSELF!’

  And, as they rolled around on the floor some more, all the kids just stared.

  It was so interesting that they almost didn’t notice that behind them, a small blue minivan had rolled up.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Robin, as the minivan’s side door opened. ‘Look who it is.’

  Out of the car stepped Scratch Tuft and Mole Stunk.

  They looked small and frightened and not at all like the scary kids who had threatened Hamish a few days earlier. Every scrap of fearsomeness and rebellion was gone. They looked like they were . . . behaving.

  The two girls walked slowly into school, with their heads down and their jackets buttoned right up.

  Inside the van, Hamish could see both sets of parents. So they were back. Where had they been?

  ‘AND DON’T YOU DARE MISBEHAVE, YOU LITTLE BUGBEARS!’ shouted Mole’s dad, appearing through the sunroof. ‘ELSE I’LL TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR TOYS AND SELL THEM TO YOUR FRIENDS!’

  All the parents in the minivan started laughing and slapping each other on the back. Their laughter was all you could hear as they drove speedily away.

  Hamish and Robin exchanged a glance. Now they were certain.

  Something was definitely going on with the grown-ups.

  ‘RIGHT. I WANT PERFECT SILENCE!’

  Mr Longblather held some cotton wool to his nose as he did the register. He had a bit of a nosebleed.

  Already he’d given two children detention because they hadn’t saluted when they entered the classroom.

  ‘We didn’t know we were supposed to salute!’ they’d argued.

  ‘Well, you know now!’ said Mr Longblather. ‘And you can have detention tomorrow too, for answering back!’

  Their teacher seemed terribly annoyed at the world. He’d made Astrid Carruthers turn and face the back of the room, because one of her socks was slightly higher than the other. He’d made Ahmed Kahn write the phrase ‘I must not sneeze in such an overly dramatic way’ one hundred times in his exercise book. Johnny Fothergill had been sent to the Time Out chair just because Mr Longblather had once had his hair cut by someone whose name was also Johnny Fothergill and he hadn’t cared for the results one bit.

  Outside, Tyrus Quinn and Rex Ox were blowing confiscated footballs over the fence with the leaf blower and high-fiving.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Hamish whispered to Robin. ‘Your cousin goes to St Autumnal’s, doesn’t she?’

  ‘St Au-bum-nal’s? Yeah,’ said Robin.

  ‘Has she ever talked about a girl with blue hair?’

  ‘Blue hair?’ said Robin.

  ‘Well, black hair, but with one long blue bit.’

  Robin shrugged.

  ‘I can ask her later if you like.’

  Robin pointed at Grenville, who was doing his usual nasal foraging.

  ‘Isn’t that your dad’s watch?’ he said.

  Hamish nodded, sadly. How was he going to get it back? Not only was it the only thing he really had left from his dad, but he needed that watch to check how long the Pauses were getting.

  ‘After school,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m going to go up to him. I’m going to steal my watch back. I’m going to . . .’

  THWACK!

  Where did that come from? Hamish found himself in a cloud of dust as the chalkboard eraser bounced off his bonce.

  ‘HAMISH ELLERBY!’ yelled Mr Longblather, louder than he’d ever been before. ‘IT SEEMS YOU WANT DETENTION! WELL, PREPARE FOR DETENTION LIKE NEVER BEFORE!’

  Grenville turned to Hamish and smiled a sickening smile, then made a big show of checking ‘his’ Explorer.

  Detention!

  When Hamish arrived at detention, it felt weird for a lot of reasons.

  It was absolutely packed, for a start. Mr Longblather must have been in an awful mood all day to keep this many people after school.

  Every single chair, table and bit of floor space was taken. There were kids on top of filing cabinets and kids hanging off the blackboard.

  It seemed like every single child in school was here. Hamish even saw some kids from different schools.

  Only Grenville seemed to have escaped punishment. Clearly, even in the mood he was in, Mr Longblather didn’t want to face the wrath of the Postmaster.

  Hamish could see him now through the window. He was sitting on the wall outside the classroom in his little shorts, with a huge bag of Gambian Gobstoppers, throwing The Explorer high up into the air and catching it. Hamish felt sick. Grenville kept pretending he wasn’t going to catch the watch and might simply let it drop.

  But probably the weirdest thing about this very, very busy detention was who was sitting at the desk next to Hamish.

  It was Frau Fuss-bundler.

  Somehow, Mr Long-blather had even managed to give the headteacher a detention.

  Frau Fussbundler seemed very ashamed, but she was also fuming and swearing revenge under her breath in German. She was far too big for the chair she was sitting in, and her knees lifted the desk right off the floor. Have you ever met Frau Fussbundler? Well, up until today, she was the last person you’d expect to find rolling around on the floor grappling with another teacher and trying to flick their ear.

  Frau Margot Fuss-bundler had taught at Winterbourne forever. She was married to Dr Eric Fussbundler, the cheerful dentist who ran The Tooth Hurts on the high street. No one really knew why he was quite so cheerful. ‘I’m just filling good!’ he’d often say, because that was his little joke. He had lots of little jokes. Some of them were so little they were actually invisible.

  People called him ‘the King of the Dentists’, because he was so good at crowns. He was particularly cheerful these days, because just last month he’d won Starkley Dental Worker of the Year.

  Hamish had been to see him just a few weeks ago.

  ‘What did you win?’ Hamish had asked when he was getting his filling.

  ‘Just a little plaque,’ said Dr Fussbundler, with a toothy grin.

  Hamish hadn’t wanted to have that filling. I mean, who wants a filling? Really he’d only gone because his dad had made the appointment for him just a few days before he left. It sounds strange, but keeping that appointment meant something to Hamish, like by going he was making sure he stayed connected to his dad. He’d thought about the date a lot.

  MAY THE 4TH, 2.30 p.m.

  In a way, it had been something to look forward to. But the truth was he never really understood why his dad would book an appointment so far in advance.

  ‘Prevention’s as good as a cure, H!’ his dad had said, ruffling his hair. ‘Always prepare!’

  The appointment itself had been a little strange too.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Fussbundler had said, holding up his enormous metal machine. ‘I know the drill!’

  Robin had made fun of him for needing a filling. Robin’s dental hygiene, he claimed, was second to none. Mainly because his mum made him brush his teeth for fifteen minutes before and after dinner every night.

  So Hamish had laid back in the chair, quivering slightly, while Dr Fussbundler made small talk and tested his scrapers and scoopers and prodders and pokers.

  ‘Now if I have to dash off at any point,’ Dr Fussbundler had said, snapping on his blue plastic gloves, ‘I’ll make sure there is someone to fill in for me!’

  BV­VV­RR­RR­R screamed the drill as he lowered it into Hamish’s mouth.

  ‘Brace yourself!’ Dr Fussbundler had shouted.

  And BV­VV­VN­NN�
�NE­EE­EE­EE­EE­EE­OO­OO­OO­WW­WW the drill had shrieked, juddering and shuddering into Hamish’s poor tooth. His whole head had started vibrating and water shot everywhere.

  ‘A bad dentist gets on everybody’s nerves!’ Dr Fussbundler had chuckled over the cacophony. ‘Nerves! Do you get it?’

  Hamish tried to nod, but now one of Dr Fussbundler’s hands was all the way into his mouth. Poor Hamish watched with eyes wide as pancakes as the good doctor reached behind him for a tub of something marked ZINOXYCLUMPTM. It was a thick grey goo like hair gel that Dr Fussbundler scooped out on a big metal spoon. He started generously slathering the stuff into Hamish’s tooth.

  ‘Going to need a lot of this!’ Dr Fussbundler had yelled. ‘It’s going to be a hard day at the orifice!’

  Trying to distract himself, Hamish had stared at the tub, and noticed the words TRIAL PRODUCT – BELASKO written on its side.

  Belasko. He recognised that word from his dad’s business card. It had the same logo and everything. Two black wings, one on either side of a sunflower. It must be one of the products sold by his dad’s company, he thought. Well, he hoped it was a good one, seeing as it was being shovelled into his gob like this. Then he was distracted again by Dr Fussbundler clambering onto the chair and starting to fling Hamish’s poor head around.

  Ten minutes later, sweaty and red, Dr Fussbundler was finished.

  ‘There – smiles better!’ he said, mopping his brow.

  ‘Okay, Dr Fussbundler, bye then,’ Hamish said as he left, pretty bored of all the dental puns and rubbing his cheek. Dr Fussbundler hadn’t been quite as delicate as he’d hoped.

  ‘Tartar!’ replied Dr Fussbundler, cheerily.

  ‘Right! DETENTION OVER!’ shouted Mr Longblather, disturbing Hamish’s thoughts about good dental hygiene. ‘OUT WITH YOU!’

  Everybody ran for the door.

  Unfortunately, Hamish ran straight into Grenville.

  ‘Oh, hello, Smellerby,’ he said, smirking. ‘Would you like a sweetie?’

  He’d clearly been waiting for Hamish just to do this. He held out a large paper bag with Madame Cous Cous’s face on the front.