Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire (3 page)

‘Greetings!' he gabbled, bravely ignoring all the blood and guts and the pile of strange twisty bones in the corner. ‘I am Alan Taylor and I'm
having a party tomorrow night on Boaster's Hill! Do come along. You'd be most welco–'

A hairy old pig's head fell off a hook, slid down the wall and came rolling slowly towards him. With that, the last of Alan Taylor's courage disappeared. He gave a little yelp, threw a handful of money into the air and ran back outside to safety.

‘Did you see that?' said Mr Gum, stuffing the cash down his pants where no one would
dare to go after it, not even Billy William.

‘I did,' replied the dreadful butcher. ‘That little tungler's as rich as a mushroom!'

‘Now listen,' Mr Gum continued slyly, ‘I wants that money, not just a bit of it but the whole burpin' lot. But we'll need a plan, an' that's where you come in, you enormous guff merchant. So get hatchin' plans like you never hatched plans before!'

‘Righty-oh,' smirked Billy William, and with that he closed his eyes and began hatching a plan in perfect silence. He was like a horrible hen, except he hatched plans instead of eggs and the plans grew into misery instead of chickens, and he didn't have wings or a beak or feathers and he didn't make clucking noises and he wasn't a hen.

Four hours later Billy William opened his eyes.

‘Right, I've got it,' he said. ‘We'll go to Taylor's stupid party, then when it's dark we sneak up on him an' take his biscuit tin. Then we escape to France, change our names an' live like powerful kings on all the cash.'

‘Caterpillar Joe, you're a genius!' laughed Mr Gum through a mouthful of entrails. ‘A blibberin' genius!'

T
he following afternoon, Polly met her good friend Friday O'Leary at the bottom of Boaster's Hill and together they set off for Alan
Taylor's house. For some reason, Friday was coated from head to foot in pomegranate seeds. However, Polly knew better than to ask questions for Friday's ways were deep and mysterious.

It's just one of his 'credible wisdoms, I expects
, thought Polly and she was right. For as they climbed the hill, the birds of the air swooped down and pecked away the seeds. By the time they reached the top, not a single one remained.

‘The seeds will decorate their nests and
guard against cuckoos,' nodded Friday wisely as the last chaffinch flew off. ‘'Tis nature's way.'

But then he saw the huge white mansion sparkling in the sunshine and his eyes exploded in amazement.

‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!' he shouted, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘It's MASSIVE!'

At that, Alan Taylor ran out to greet them, his delicious face flushed with excitement.

‘Polly!' he laughed, throwing money at her. ‘And this must be your friend, Friday O'Leary!'

For you see, Friday was wearing a t-shirt which said:

My name is Friday O'Leary.
I'm Polly's friend.

‘But where's my manners?' said their little host. ‘You must be hungry after your long walk.'

He snapped his fingers and at once a servant scuttled out of the house holding a silver tray of sandwiches. Really really posh ones. But there was no time to eat them because Alan Taylor snapped his fingers again and a sports car appeared.

‘Hop in!' shouted Alan Taylor and the next thing you know, the car zoomed into the mansion, yep, seriously – just right in through the front door. Round the rooms the car whizzed, smashing up Chinese vases and knocking over antique furniture.

FTOING!
They ran over a grandfather clock, killing it instantly.

‘Don't worry,' Alan Taylor laughed, ‘I'm so rich I can easily afford another one!'

Why
, thought Polly,
he's just like a little kid showing off. Why don't he just do proper trusts in people 'stead of tryin' to impress them?

But the little biscuit was snapping his fingers once more.

‘To the Alancopter!'
he cried,
bundling Polly and Friday into a helicopter which stood in the dining room. He fired it up and out they flew, smashing straight through a stained glass window. Over the hillside they soared, faster and faster until Polly's head was spinning like a daffodil. Alan Taylor was an absolutely rubbish pilot, and he kept nearly hitting trees and peregrine falcons, so everyone (including himself) was secretly relieved when he brought the Alancopter back down, making a perfect landing in a fish pond. Out they
all climbed, dizzy and exhausted.

‘Please, sir,' began Polly weakly. ‘Can I gets a glass of wate–'

But Alan Taylor was dancing around like a biscuit possessed.

‘No time!' he cried. ‘Look! The party's about to start!'

And turning around, Polly saw funfair rides, lots and lots of them dotted all over the hillside. And there were stripy tents and lights in the trees,
and the smell of candyfloss it was in the air, so it was. And down below, waiting excitedly at the bottom of the hill, was a tremendous crowd. Nearly all the townsfolk had turned up. Jonathan Ripples was eating a tub of margarine and Martin Launderette was there too, writing in his red notebook. Beany McLeany, who loved things that rhymed, was doing a showbiz quiz on a girl named Liz. A little girl called Peter was there with her dad, whose name was Rachel. And there were
hundreds of others besides. Hundreds, I tell you.

Alan Taylor snapped his fingers and all at once the sky was ablaze with fireworks, soaring and fizzing overhead.

‘
Hooray for the Biscuit Billionaire
!' roared the crowd and they ran up the hill to join the party.

Well, what larks. You should have been there! The jugglers juggled, the clowns clowned and the
toilet cleaners cleaned the toilets. Fire eaters ate fire, water drinkers drank water and a lion put its head in the mouth of a lion tamer. In one corner a fat man displayed his amazing belly for all to see, it wasn't part of the show, it was just Jonathan Ripples because his shirt had shrunk in the wash.

‘Let's try the Ghost Train, Polly,' grinned Alan Taylor. ‘There's real ghosts in there!'

‘Yippee!' cried Polly. ‘I wants to see a ghost ever so much!'

‘There be no such thing as ghosts!'
said Friday scornfully.
‘It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be, an' nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests and bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a-belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs!'

Alan Taylor and Polly stood staring at him, their mouths wide open.

‘Um, Friday,' said Polly eventually. ‘What you on about?'

‘Dunno,' Friday shrugged, climbing on to the Ghost Train. ‘But it sounded good.'

So after all that, Polly finally got to meet some ghosts and they were very friendly.

One of them gave her some new shoes, and Friday made friends with a tiny phantom called Pickles and got its email address.
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