Billy Angel (8 page)

Thelma had brought one of her dad's old suits to dress him in.

Putting clothes on a skeleton is hard work, but once I'd dressed him, he did look much better.

‘OK – turn off the lights,' said Gaby.

‘Why?' I moaned. I hate the dark.

‘Because we need total darkness,' thundered Thelma, who was only just audible over the actual thunder that was still sounding above.

I flicked the switch and shivered. The only light was from the cauldron that the girls had rigged up on the table. (It was actually just a camping stove and an old cooking pan.)

‘OK, I think we're ready,' said Gaby. ‘Bring Stan forward,' she motioned to me.

Stan was propped up in an old deck chair. I pushed him closer to the table and watched as Thelma picked up one of his long, spindly arms and draped it in the cauldron. In went the pie
and then there was silence. (Well, apart from the crazy storm raging outside, which I was beginning to think might be a sign from above that I was letting the side down!)

At last, they started. I've no idea what they said, but it sounded totally ridiculous. Complete hocus-pocus, wizardy bilge. I had to stick my fingers in my mouth to make sure I didn't laugh. (And I was secretly scared of what Thelma might do to me if I spoilt her fun.) But as they went on, I stopped wanting to laugh and began to feel rather uncomfortable. There was something rather unsettling about their rhythm. And then suddenly a scary thought occurred to me – what if this mumbo jumbo really did work? What if we were actually about to bring someone back from the dead?

The room went cold and I heard a rattling noise. I suspected it might be my teeth, which were chattering with cold and fear. But it wasn't.

Stan Spooner's skeleton was shaking.

I bit my lip and prayed that the screws would hold. (As you might have guessed I'm not particularly skilled with a screwdriver – and I didn't like to think what Thelma might do to me if Stan Spooner fell apart.)

The girls started chanting again. And the skeleton started shaking some more. And then the weirdest thing happened: flesh started to appear along his bones.

Honestly. It was truly ghastly. Bubbling blood and flesh pulsated along Stan's bones. I didn't want to look. But just like at the anatomy museum, I couldn't stop myself.

The chanting got louder as the storm grew stronger outside. The window frames were rattling. And Stan was growing more and more human-looking. Hair sprouted on the top of his bony head. Eyes popped into his empty sockets. Then his jaw fell open and I noticed teeth were growing inside.

It was too much. I shut my eyes tight. Then, all of a sudden, there was an almighty crash of thunder, and a streak of lightening lit up the room. I peeked through my fingers, and there, sitting in the deck chair, was the complete Stan Spooner, competitive pie-eating champion. Though he didn't look much like his picture.

‘Pies!' he gurgled. ‘I want pies!'

Thelma was ecstatic. ‘We've done it!' she squealed. ‘We've really done it!'

Gaby smiled smugly. ‘Of course we have.'

I was speechless.

Thelma put the pie in his hand. And he immediately stuffed it into his mouth. I watched as pie grease ran down his chin.

Thelma clapped her hands in delight.

‘He doesn't say much,' I muttered.

‘Well, he
is
a zombie,' said Gaby sarcastically. ‘They're not known for their powers of conversation.'

‘Enough talking,' said Thelma sharply. ‘We've got to get him down to the pie shop – the competition starts in less than an hour.'

And that's where the problems began. For some reason, Stan wasn't very steady on his feet.

‘He's probably forgotten how to use them,' I said, desperately hoping no one would blame my wiring job.

But every time he tried to stand, his knees gave way and he collapsed again.

‘Pies,' he gurgled. ‘Pies!' It was all he could say.

‘Haul him up!' boomed Thelma. ‘I won't let a pair of lousy legs let me down.'

I draped one of his long, bony arms around my shoulders, and Gaby took the other side. I shivered. There's something about touching a zombie. They don't feel very nice. A bit cold and clammy, and slightly soggy, but I was too polite to say anything.

‘The wheelbarrow,' said Thelma. ‘We'll stick him in there and wheel him to the competition. There's nothing in the rules that say a competitor can't be carried in.'

And that's what we did. We poured him into the wheelbarrow and set off for the shop.

It wasn't easy. Not only did I have to take a turn at pushing Stan, I was also lugging my tool bag. But finally we made it.

We went in the back door, through the kitchen. I was wondering how we'd explain ourselves, but everything was in such chaos that no one noticed. A handful of bakers were running hither and thither, as though they didn't quite know what they were supposed to be doing. There were pies everywhere, stacked up in big, metal serving plates. Stan's eyes were out on stalks, and there was saliva running down his chops. ‘Where's Grant?' roared Thelma.

‘He hasn't turned up,' squeaked one of the bakers, obviously as terrified of Thelma as the rest of us.

‘Where's my dad?' she thundered.

‘In the shop – they're introducing the competitors…'

‘Quick!' Thelma bellowed to us. ‘Grab Stan's arms, and let's get him inside.'

‘Pies!' growled Stan.

I shook my head. There was no way we were going to get away with this.

The competitors were lined up at the front of the pie shop, like athletes on a racetrack. I'd expected them all to be enormous. But they weren't.

‘Introducing Kelly “the Belly” Bradshaw from Florida, USA.'

There was a round of applause and a few cheers as a skinny woman with a shock of orange hair took a bow.

‘And next up we have Gary “the Growler” Gibbons from Adelaide, Australia.'

Another round of applause and a few whoops of delight, as a small man in a khaki boiler suit gave a wave and did a few star jumps.

‘And our very own local lad, Charlie “the Pit” Pittam!'

I craned my neck. It was the first time I'd seen the root of all my troubles. He wasn't much to look at. A bit like a mobile-phone salesman: smooth. In fact his face was so smooth it was
almost expressionless. (I wondered whether he had some sort of face iron that he used to get the creases out at night.) I noticed he got an extra big cheer from a moon-faced girl in the audience – no doubt she was the sausage heiress.

‘And introducing a new competitor, Stanley Smith…'

‘That's us!' growled Thelma. ‘Come on.'

There was a smattering of polite applause, and a few odd looks, as between us we managed to wrestle Stan into a chair. (I noticed Thelma had taken down Stan's picture from above the counter.)

‘And, finally, a late entry, introducing Grant “the Champ” Watkins.'

Thelma did a double take. ‘What?!'

It was true. There, taking his seat amongst the other competitors, was Grant the pie chef.

‘What's he doing?' squealed Thelma.

Of course I knew, but I was too scared to say. Grant was obviously so besotted with Thelma that he'd decided to reclaim her honour and beat Charlie Pittam at his own game. I shook my head. Grant looked a less-likely competitive pie-eating candidate than I did.

Just then Charlie sauntered over.

‘Who's your new friend, Thelma?' he said nastily, looking straight at Stan. ‘Aren't you going to introduce us?'

‘Pies!' growled Stan.

Thelma blushed scarlet. ‘Hello, Charlie,' she said with a wobbly voice. ‘I hope you'll be a good loser tonight.'

Charlie swept back his greasy, black hair and sniggered. ‘Oh, and he's going to beat me, is he?' He sniggered again, and then went back to his sausage girlfriend.

Well, he had a point. As much as I didn't want to admit it, Stan wasn't looking his best. I'd definitely made a few errors with my rewiring. I'd already noticed he couldn't quite close his jaw properly, and one of his feet had fallen off, but I'd hidden it in my tool bag.

The announcer guy, who looked a bit like Thelma – apart from the bald head and moustache (her dad, I reckoned), picked up his mike again.

‘Now, the rules are simple: competitors must not be helped by any of their supporters; they must finish each pie before embarking on their next; they're only allowed to sip water – no other liquids; the time limit is ten minutes and
the judges' decision is final. We're pleased to have with us Jeffrey Dullard from
The Guinness Book of Records
to ensure it's a fair and impartial competition. Now, bring on the pies!'

The kitchen doors opened and large silver platters piled high with pies were presented to each competitor, along with a jug of water. Members of Jeffrey Dullard's team were assigned to watch each competitor, and count the pies they consumed.

My heart was racing. This was it. I still wasn't quite sure what I was doing here. I certainly hadn't protected Thelma from her dark side. I'd practically introduced her to it. If it hadn't been for me and my screwdrivers, we wouldn't even be sitting here. I sighed, and started trying to think of ways to explain all this to the hoodie-angel…

‘On your marks, get set, GO!'

And we were off. Or rather, Stan was.

Before the start of the contest, he'd been like a greyhound fighting to get out of his trap: Gaby had had to hold his arms down to stop him getting stuck into the pies. So as soon as the whistle went, he grabbed his first pie, and took an enormous bite.

Thelma's grin was as wide as my tool bag.

Stan chomped like crazy, pie fat running down his chin. But the others were getting stuck in, too.

‘Kelly the Belly's on pie number two,' whispered Gaby.

But Stan was holding his own. He'd already started on his third, and was at least six mouthfuls ahead of Charlie Pittam.

I wasn't really watching the competition; I was staring at Stan's jaw. There was something not quite right about it. And I suddenly
wondered whether I should have made more of an effort to fit the spare screws in somewhere.

‘The Growler's on pie number five,' shrieked Thelma. ‘Come on, Stan!'

He didn't need much encouragement. Stan increased his pace, and by the time he got to his seventh pie, he was in the lead. But Charlie was hard on his heels.

‘Look!' shouted Gaby. ‘Grant's on number eight.'

I couldn't really see Grant from where I was sitting. But I didn't bother trying too hard. I knew he was no match for Stan and Charlie.

I was right.

‘Stan's on number ten,' roared Thelma.

But so was Charlie…

‘Come on, Charlie!' screamed his moon-faced girlfriend. The encouragement worked. Charlie's rhythmic chewing stepped up a beat and within seconds he was on pie number twelve.

I was mesmerised watching him. Round and round he chewed. And then, without missing a beat, he'd take a glug of water, and start another pie. It actually made me feel quite sick.

‘THREE MINUTES TO GO!' shouted Thelma's dad.

And that's when disaster struck.

Stan was in the lead on pie 13, when his jaw suddenly stopped. It just froze, like someone had turned off the power.

‘Come on, Stan!' boomed Thelma. ‘What are you doing?'

But Stan was stuck. Well and truly. His mouth was full of pie, but there was definitely a malfunction somewhere.

I gulped. Now was definitely not the time to own up about the screws.

‘Do something, Billy!' thundered Thelma.

But what could I do? The rules were clear. Supporters were not allowed to help. And anyway, by then it was too late.

‘Two minutes to go…'

Thelma was close to tears. Stan seemed to have turned grey, and I noticed his bones were starting to show through his skin.