Buried Alive! (5 page)

‘Yes, rotten old pier,' I said, though I didn't care about the lack of food stalls.

I didn't like the pier itself. I worried about the way the wooden planks were seldom perfectly slotted together. You could see through the gaps down to the frothy grey sea underneath. Some of the planks looked really old, as if they'd splinter as soon as you stepped on them.

I tried to work out the width of the plank and the width of me. It was fine for someone big like Biscuits. But I'm seriously skinny. I could quite possibly go plummeting downwards to my death. Well, I can swim a bit so maybe I wouldn't drown immediately. But I knew there are all sorts of dangerous currents under piers. Even very strong swimmers could be sucked straight under.

‘Why are you walking in that funny way?' asked Biscuits.

‘Oh, I – I'm just playing that don't-step-on-
the-cracks-game,' I said quickly.

I didn't want to tell Biscuits I was scared of the pier. He'd start to think me the wimpiest wimp ever. He already knew I was scared of heights. And the boy with the prickly hair. (Well, we were
both
a bit scared of him.)

Dad had hurried over to the boys fishing. Biscuits followed. I sidled over, stepping high, holding my breath.

‘Maybe we could try a bit of fishing, boys,' Dad said eagerly.

‘Yeah, maybe,' said Biscuits. ‘Fishing is the sort of sport I like best. You don't rush about. You just sit. And you can eat your fish after!'

I wasn't so sure. I didn't like the idea of being on the pier for ages, especially not perched right at the edge, by the railings.

One of the boys stiffened and hauled in his line.

‘He's got one! A real whopper!' said Dad.

We edged nearer to watch. It was a big mistake. A great gasping wriggling pop-eyed fish flapped in the air as it was reeled in. The boy seized it and tore the bait from its mouth, ripping it horribly.

‘Oh!' I whispered, covering my own lips.

It got a lot worse. The fish was flopping about frantically, its poor torn mouth an O of agony. The boy held on hard and took aim. I
thought he had taken pity on the fish and was going to throw it into the sea. No. He took the gasping fish and whacked its head hard on the wooden planks. The fish stopped flapping. It lay still, a grey slimey sad dead thing.

I felt the fish I'd eaten for lunch flapping inside my tummy. There was a Gents near the end of the pier. I made a run for it, forgetting about the creaking planks in this new emergency. I made it into a cubicle – just. I was very very sick. It was horrible – but it made me feel better too. I didn't want any fish inside me ever again.

Biscuits was waiting for me when I came out.

‘Have you been sick?' he asked rather unnecessarily.

‘Mmm,' I said, and rinsed my mouth out.

‘I'm hardly ever sick,' said Biscuits. ‘You must feel horribly empty now. Would you like a biscuit?' He felt in his pocket.

‘No thanks!' I said quickly.

‘Come and get a bit of fresh air. It's all pongy in here,' said Biscuits.

I must have looked as grey as the poor fish because Biscuits put his arm round me.

‘You'll feel better in a minute,' he said, very kindly.

Then we heard a horrible noise from the
very end of the pier. Jeering. And then silly juicy kissy noises.

‘Ooh! Look at the little Mummy's boys have a cuddle-wuddle!'

It was Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face, sitting up on the railing at the end of the pier, right beside a sign saying DANGER. The sign was Dead Accurate.

Biscuits sprang away from me as if I was red hot. I certainly felt fiery, blood bubbling in my head like a Jacuzzi.

‘Let's go, Biscuits,' I said urgently, starting to back away.

‘Biscuits! What sort of a daft poncey name is that?' said Prickle-Head

‘It's a nickname, right?' said Biscuits. He added, bravely but unwisely, ‘Yours is a lot dafter.'

‘So what's
my
nickname, eh?' said Prickle-Head, jumping off the railing and standing in front of Biscuits. Pinch-Face copied him, hands on hips, legs wide apart.

I looked round desperately. Dad was still halfway down the pier, talking to the fishermen.

‘Looking for Mumsie-Wumsie to come rushing to the rescue?' said Prickle-Head. ‘Ooooh dear. She's not around this time, is she?
Shame!
So, Fatso Big-Bum Biscuits –
what's
my
nickname, eh?'

Biscuits opened his mouth. I knew he was going to come straight out with it. Prickle-Head. Prickle-Head would not be amused. He had his great Doc Martens on. Biscuits was as round as a football. It looked like he was going to get kicked.

‘Your nickname's The Boss,' I blurted out.

Biscuits blinked, astonished.

Prickle-Head looked surprised too.

‘The Boss?' he repeated slowly, seeking out hidden insulting meanings.

‘Yes, we call you The Boss because you're obviously boss of all the beach,' I said.

Prickle-Head sniggered, obviously dead chuffed with his new nickname.

‘OK, OK, so I'm The Boss,' he said. ‘Check that out, Ricky.'

‘Right, Carl,' said Pinch-Face.

‘Right,
Boss
,' said Prickle-Head. Then he turned to me. ‘What's your nickname then, if your tubby pal is Biscuits? Are you Little Squirt?'

Pinch-Face snorted.

‘Yes!' I said. ‘Yes, that's me. I'm Little Squirt.'

‘Little Squirt and Biscuits,' Prickle-Head repeated.

Pinch-Face snorted so enthusiastically
that a bubble blew out of his nose.

‘So, Biscuits,' said Prickle-Head. ‘You like them, do you? Biscuits?'

‘Yeah, I like them,' said Biscuits.

‘Got any biscuits on you, then? How about sharing them round?' said Prickle-Head.

‘Sorry. I've eaten my last one,' said Biscuits. Then he added,
so
stupidly, ‘and I wouldn't share them with you anyway.'

‘You don't want to share your yummy Yoyos and wicked Wagon Wheels and heavenly Hob Nobs?' said Prickle-Head, tutting in a very ominous way. ‘Well, we'll see about that. Go through the Fat Boy's pockets, Ricky. They're
bulging
with biscuits.'

‘You keep your dirty hands off me,' said Biscuits, clenching his fists.

‘Give them your biscuits, Biscuits. We'll get you some more later,' I hissed urgently. ‘Don't try to fight them. You won't win.'

I was right. Biscuits hit out but he didn't manage to connect with anything. Prickle-Head kicked out and Biscuits doubled up, Pinch-Face pinioned his arms behind his back and pulled him upright.

I wanted to help him. I really did. But I didn't know
how
.

And I didn't want to get hurt.

Prickle-Head started poking in Biscuits's
pockets. He found biscuits, sweets, chocolate, even a few crushed crisps.

‘You greedy pig! You've got a whole corner shop stuffed down your trousers!' Prickle-Head yelled. He gave a last rootle and pulled out something squashed down right at the bottom of Biscuits's pocket. Something woolly.

‘What on earth . . .? Is this your little woolly cardi, Mummy's boy?' said Prickle-Head, shaking the strange pinky-grey object.

It sprouted floppy arms and legs. We were all looking at Dog Hog.

‘It's a
cuddly toy
!' Prickle-Head shouted, hardly able to believe his luck.

Pinch-Face shrieked with glee.

Biscuits turned lobster red, as if he were being painfully boiled.

He tried to snatch Dog Hog back but Pinch-Face held him helpless.

I dithered on the edge, desperate. I craned round. Dad was
still
with the fishermen, examining their bait.

‘
Dad!
' I yelled. ‘Dad come
here
!'

But it was windy on the pier. My voice only carried a few metres. Dad didn't hear me.

‘Shut up, Little Squirt,' said Prickle-Head. ‘Daddy's not coming and old Mumsie's gone missing. Oh boo-hoo, they want their
mummy! Do you need a cuddle with your woolly whatsit, Fat-Bum?'

Prickle-Head dangled Dog Hog in front of Biscuits.

‘What
is
it, anyway? It's all long and pink. Hey, is it a woolly willy?'

Pinch-Face squealed.

‘Yes, tut, tut, a woolly willy. You don't want to play with a dirty old thing like that,' said Prickle-Head. He suddenly darted to the railings. He leaned over, holding Dog Hog between his finger and thumb.

‘Don't!' Biscuits yelled.

‘He's only pretending, Biscuits,' I said. ‘
Dad! Dad!
Look, I'll run for Dad, right?'

‘Too late, Little Squirt,' said Prickle-Head, and he dropped Dog Hog over the side.

‘Wheeeeee – splosh!' said Prickle-Head, and then he ran off laughing, his big boots thundering on the wooden planks. Pinch-Face ran after him, punching the air.

Biscuits and I rushed to the railings. He'd really dropped Dog Hog but not in the sea. There was a rotting landing stage directly below, and poor Dog Hog lay spread-eagled on it, splashed by the lapping sea.

Biscuits didn't hesitate. He seized the railings and swung his leg over.

‘Biscuits! Don't be crazy! You can't! It's
far too dangerous!' I yelled.

‘I've got to get Dog Hog. I've had him since I was a baby. My nan knitted him.'

‘Then she could knit you another one, Biscuits. Oh please,
don't
!'

‘She can't knit another one. She's dead now. I
have
to get him, Tim,' said Biscuits, and he started climbing down determinedly.

‘Biscuits! You might fall!
Please
don't. Wait for my dad,' I begged.

‘I can't wait,' Biscuits gasped, and then his foot slipped on the wet railing and he was left hanging by his hands.

‘
Biscuits!
'

Biscuits held on, got his feet back on the bar below, gave himself a second's breather, and then started feeling for the next bar – and the next – and the next. I hung over the pier, not daring to talk to him any more in case I distracted him. He went down and down – nearly slipped again, hung on – down and down – and then he jumped for it. He was there, on the landing stage!

It creaked ominously as he bounded onto it, as if it might break up altogether under his weight.

‘Oh, be careful, Biscuits!' I whispered.

Biscuits seized Dog Hog, held him briefly for one moment, and then stuffed him very
firmly far down into his trouser pocket.

‘There, I've got him!' said Biscuits. ‘Now all I've got to do is get back.'

He looked up. He blinked.

‘Ah. The thing is . . .
how
am I going to get back?' Biscuits said.

‘I'll
have
to get Dad!' I shouted.

‘Are you calling me, Tim?' It
was
Dad, suddenly right beside me. ‘What is it? Where's Biscuits?'

‘Down there!' I said, pointing.

‘
What
?' Dad peered. ‘Oh my goodness! Hang on, son. I'll come down.'

‘No. I'll come up,' said Biscuits, and he spat on his palms determinedly. He seized the first bar and hauled.

‘That's it!' said Dad. ‘Now the next!'

Biscuits continued steadily, though his face was purple with effort.

‘Steady now,' Dad cried. ‘Biscuits? Are you all right? Here, I'm coming!'

‘No! I'm – I'm – just – out – of – puff!' Biscuits gasped. ‘But – I'm – OK.'

He looked down to see how far he'd got. He wavered.

‘Don't look down!' Dad shouted.

Biscuits looked up, and started climbing again.

‘That's the lad. Not too far now,' Dad said.
He looked over his shoulder. ‘Thank heavens Mum's still with that fortune-teller. She'd go bananas if she saw Biscuits. What's he
playing
at? Don't you boys realize it's highly dangerous?'

‘Yes, I realize it ever so, Dad,' I said. ‘And so does Biscuits. But this was a serious emergency. You see these boys were being nasty to us and one of them—'

‘OK, OK. Don't rabbit on about it now, Tim. Let's just concentrate on Biscuits getting back up here all in one piece,' said Dad, leaning right over and just about reaching Biscuits. ‘Take my hand, Biscuits.'

Biscuits did as he was told. Dad very nearly toppled over with his weight, but just about managed to hang on. Biscuits climbed up, and Dad seized him under the armpits and hauled him back over the top of the railings.

Biscuits lay flat on the planks, gasping like the captured fish.

‘Are you all right?' Dad asked. He sat down too, and mopped his brow.

‘You – bet!' Biscuits puffed.

‘Oh Biscuits, you were so
brave
!' I said.

‘Yes – I was – wasn't I?' said Biscuits, sitting up and grinning.

‘You were also very very reckless and silly,'
said Dad. ‘You must never ever do that again, do you promise?'

‘Cross my heart and hope to die,' said Biscuits. ‘Phew! I feel a bit peckish after all that high drama.'

Prickle-Head had dropped most of Biscuits's secret supply of food. Biscuits started gathering it up and consuming it rapidly.

I didn't feel hungry at all, even though I was ultra-empty after being sick. I still felt bowled over by Biscuits's bravery. And cast down by my own cowardice.

I was a totally useless scaredy-cat little squirt.

I picked my way slowly back down the pier, plank by plank. Biscuits and Dad strode ahead, chatting man to man.

‘Are you feeling all right, Tim?' said Mum, but she didn't sound too worried.

The fortune-teller had put her in an unusually good mood.

‘She says I'm going to meet someone from the past – and romance is in the air,' said Mum, her eyes sparkling.

‘I hope I don't breathe it in – I can't stick romance,' said Biscuits.