Horrid Henry Rocks (7 page)

“Daffy and her Dancing Daisies?” he spluttered.

“Yes,” said Horrid Henry brightly. “I've heard it's their best show ever. Great new songs. You'd love it. Wanna swap?”

Brainy Brian stared at him as if he had a turnip instead of a head.

“You're trying to swap Daffy and her Dancing Daisies tickets for the Killer Boy Rats?” said Brian slowly.

“I'm doing you a favor, no one likes the Killer Boy Rats anymore,” said Henry.

“I do,” said Brian.

Rats.

“How come you have a ticket for Daffy?” said Brian. “Isn't that a baby show?”

“It's not mine, I found it,” said Horrid Henry quickly. Oops.

“Ha ha, Henry, I'm seeing the Killers, and you're not,” Margaret taunted.

“Yeah, Henry,” said Sour Susan.

“I heard…” Margaret doubled over laughing, “I heard you were going to the Daffy show!”

“That's a big fat lie,” said Henry hotly. “I wouldn't be seen dead there.”

Horrid Henry looked around the auditorium at the sea of little baby nappy faces. There was Needy Neil clutching his mother's hand. There was Weepy William, crying because he'd dropped his ice cream. There was Toddler Tom, up past his bedtime. Oh, no! There was Lisping Lily. Henry ducked.

Phew. She hadn't seen him. Margaret would never stop teasing him if she ever found out. When he was king, Daffy and her Dancing Daisies would live in a dungeon with only rats for company. Anyone who so much as mentioned the name Daffy, or even grew a daisy, would be flushed down the toilet.

There was a round of polite applause as Daffy and her Dancing Daisies pirouetted on stage. Horrid Henry slumped in his seat as far as he could slump and pulled his cap over his face. Thank goodness he'd come disguised and brought some earplugs. No one would ever know he'd been there.

“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the Daisies.

“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the audience.

Oh, the torture, groaned Horrid Henry as horrible song followed horrible song. Perfect Peter sang along. So did Mom and Dad.

AAARRRRRGGGHHHHH. And to think that tomorrow night the Killer Boy Rats would be performing…and he wouldn't be there! It was so unfair.

Then Daffy cartwheeled to the front of the stage. One of the daisies stood beside her holding a giant hat.

“And now the moment all you Daffy Daisy fans have been waiting for,” squealed Daffy. “It's the Lucky Ducky Daisy Draw, when we call up on stage an oh-so-lucky audience member to lead us in the Whoops-a-Daisy sing-along song! Who's it going to be?”

“Me!” squealed Peter. Mom squeezed his arm.

Daffy fumbled in the hat and pulled out a ticket.

“And the lucky winner of our ticket raffle is…Henry! Ticket 597! Ticket 597, yes, Henry, you in row P, seat 10, come on up! Daffy needs you on stage!”

Horrid Henry was stuck to his seat in horror. It must be some other Henry. Never in his worst nightmares had he ever imagined—

“Henry, that's you,” said Perfect Peter. “You're so lucky.”

“Henry! Come on up, Henry!” shrieked Daffy. “Don't be shy!”

Onstage at the Daffy show? No! No! Wait till Moody Margaret found out. Wait till anyone found out. Henry would never hear the end of it. He wasn't moving. Pigs would fly before he budged.

“Henwy!” squealed Lisping Lily behind him. “Henwy! I want to give you a big kiss, Henwy…”

Horrid Henry leaped out of his seat. Lily! Lisping Lily! That fiend in toddler's clothing would stop at nothing to get hold of him.

Before Henry knew what had happened, ushers dressed as daisies had nabbed him and pushed him onstage.

Horrid Henry blinked in the lights. Was anyone in the world as unlucky as he?

“All together now, everyone get ready to ruffle their petals. Let's sing Tippy-toe daisy do/Let us sing a song for you!” beamed Daffy. “Henry, you start us off.”

Horrid Henry stared at the vast audience. Everyone was looking at him. Of course he didn't know any stupid Daisy songs. He always blocked his ears or ran from the room whenever Peter sang them. Whatever could the words be…“Watch out, whoop-de-do/Daisy's doing a big poo?”

These poor stupid kids. If only they could hear some decent songs, like…like…

“Granny on her crutches

Push her off her chair

Shove shove shove shove

Shove her down the stairs.”

shrieked Horrid Henry.

The audience was silent. Daffy looked stunned.

“Uh, Henry…that's not Tippy-toe daisy do,” whispered Daffy.

“C'mon everyone, join in with me,” shouted Horrid Henry, spinning around and twirling in his best Killer Boy Rats manner.

“I'm in my coffin

No time for coughin'

When you're squished down dead.

Don't care if you're a goony

Don't care if you're a loony,

Don't care if you're cartoony

I'll squish you!”

sang Horrid Henry as loud as he could.

“Gonna be a rock star (and you ain't)

Don't even—”

Two security guards ran onstage and grabbed Horrid Henry.

“Killer Boy Rats forever!” shrieked Henry as he was dragged off.

Horrid Henry stared at the special delivery letter covered in skulls and crossbones. His hand shook.

Horrid Henry goggled at the tickets and the backstage pass. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was going to the Killer Boy Rats concert. He was actually going to the Killer Boy Rats concert.

Life, thought Horrid Henry, beaming, was sweet.

Thanks to Hannah Goodwin, who suggested Horrid Henry's Autobiography would be a good title for a story. And thanks to Michael Rosen for the muddy twig revenge, and to my son, Josh, who came up with an extraordinary number of excellent tricks for Henry to play on Peter.