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Authors: Chris Mould

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BOOK: The Wooden Mile
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Stanley set off across the hill with his head in a spin. He would make his way back to the house across the moor without going down into the village. For once he was keen to get home before the night drew in, and it was nothing to do with Mrs. Carelli.
And as he walked, he wondered. Something struck him, something the pike had said. “Beware of the lady who lives in the water.”
And he recalled the mermaid on Flynn's neck.
Old Sea Dogs
The more Stanley thought about William Cake and Randall Flynn, the more ridiculous the whole thing seemed.
Randall Flynn is just a drunkard who wishes he'd been a pirate and makes up tales when he's had a few and William Cake is just … well, he's just a funny little old shopkeeper and people always make up stories
about funny little old shopkeepers and that Mr. Flynn should be ashamed of himself.
This is what Stanley imagined Mrs. Carelli would say about the whole thing—except that he had promised not to say a word about what had been discussed, so perhaps he would never know.
Up until now Stanley could have chosen to ignore the bizarre incidents that were going on around him and stay out of trouble. But circumstances were about to determine that he would become very deeply involved.
This is how they unfolded.
He was looking out over the harbor when Silver appeared with a piece of paper in his mouth and placed it in Stanley's lap before scampering off.
The note said:
Well, it wasn't a party invite, that was obvious. Stanley decided he had better be there and in the next half hour he was climbing the hill that steered up to the inn.
The inn was an old building, with beams and a steep roof. The windows were small and the sign that hung over the door bore a picture of a fat-faced pirate. He had a patch over his eye and a large knife held between smiling teeth.
Randall Flynn was not alone.
“Meet some
old friends
, Stanley,” laughed Flynn.
On Flynn's right-hand side, slumped into a corner, was a slant-eyed, mean-looking rogue. A recently inflicted wound sat over his left eye.
“This is me old mate Bill Timbers. The most wicked of pirates. He's made a thousand men walk the plank.”
Bill Timbers didn't greet Stanley. He just fixed an unnerving stare on him and kept his arms folded.
On the other side of Flynn was a larger, rounded man.
“And this 'ere is old Sharkbait Jones. A brave fellow. The victim of a frenzied shark attack, but still 'ere to tell the tale.”
Sharkbait Jones had a missing left arm and a wooden leg on the same side. He was a terrifying sight. Somehow he had managed to salvage the bones of his arm and hand, and they were sewn onto his jacket in the correct position. He was slightly more friendly than Timbers, but there was something Stanley couldn't trust in that smile.
He kept making terrible jokes about being half the man he used to be. Stanley didn't find this amusing, but he decided to pretend that he found it as funny as they did, and joined in their laughter. He wasn't sure if being polite was the done thing around pirates, but nevertheless, that was what he was going to do.
He had never seen such dried-up faces. They smelled of salt water, and when they were close, their breath as like dead shrimps and alcohol mixed together. Their skin was a grim purplish-blue color and the whites of their eyes were yellowed. Their teeth were all black and brown, in higgledy-piggledy rows like crooked tombstones.
Now, Stanley figured that old Flynn was not really one for making friends, and if he had brought him to The Grinning Rat it wasn't
because he wanted him to walk his dog again. Stanley figured that this was going to lead to something he didn't like.
He was right.
“So you're a pal of old Hangman Flynn, are you?” asked Timbers.

HANGMAN
Flynn?” squeaked Stanley.
“Oh, I didn't tell yer that bit,” grinned Flynn, and they all three burst out
into raucous laughter, spilling their beer and frightening Silver, who cowered by their feet.
“Listen, lad, I know you knows different but as far as anyone else is concerned we're all shoemakers, yeah,” insisted Timbers.
Stanley sat trembling. He was hanging on to his nerves and telling himself that bravery was about facing things when you knew deep down that you were scared. He breathed deeply and gritted his teeth.
“Come on, Stanley,” he muttered to himself.
“Listen, lad, we ain't 'ere to mess about,” said Jones. “We want our revenge on Cake. We want rid of 'im, but we need your 'elp.”
“How's that then?” Stanley asked. He couldn't help thinking how ridiculous it seemed. Three vicious pirates, all wanting to get rid of one man—yet they needed the help of an eleven-year-old boy! His heart sank. It was bad enough that he was mingling with pirates. Now he was about to
become
one!
“We've noticed you're staying at Candlestick Hall,” said Timbers.
This was a bad scare for Stanley. They knew where he lived. The last thing he wanted was drunken pirates knocking on the door. Mrs. Carelli would hit the roof.
“Only for a short while.” Stanley dodged the issue. There was no point in denying it. “I'll be heading home before too long.”
“There's a nasty-looking pistol hanging over that mantelpiece,” Timbers continued.
“The one in the glass case with the silver bullet. Only one way to kill a werewolf, Stanley. And that's with a silver bullet.”
Stanley shuddered. How did they know the inside of the house? The thought of them snooping around sent a shiver winding down from his head to his feet.
“You mean you want me to get you the gun and the bullet and then you'll shoot the wolf and then I can put the gun back and it will be all over and you'll leave me alone?” “Almost,” said Flynn, “ … but not quite!”
Y'see, we got a little problem.” As he spoke they all turned out their hands (or what was left of them) on the table. “There ain't one of us 'ere capable of firing a gun no more.”
“I can't bend these fingers since my hands were sewn back on,” announced Flynn.
“And I got caught out playing with dynamite,” said Timbers, grinning and staring with a raised eyebrow. His index and middle fingers were missing from both hands.
Stanley noticed that Jones's right arm and hand were fully intact.
“Don't laugh,” said Jones, “but I'm left-handed. Always was, always will be. Can't get used to using this damned thing. Just don't trust myself with a gun. Especially in the company of wolves!”
“What's yer aim like, lad?” asked Flynn, and they all burst into a sinister cackle, sending the dog scurrying off into a far corner of the inn.
Stanley wasn't happy. “If what you say is
true, surely it's safer to be rid of him while he is in human form,” he suggested.
“Don't work like that,” snapped Timbers, who didn't take to the boy disagreeing with him. “Werewolves 'as to be got rid of when they're werewolves. The human part of them survives. And anyway, what's it gonna look like, you gettin' caught shooting little old men? Not everybody believes Cake is the one. You could end up looking at life through a barred window.
“You're far better off shooting the werewolf and being a hero. Ain't nobody
else
around here gonna do it, that's for sure.” And their laughter grew louder.
Stanley was still trembling with nerves, but he was angry at what was being put upon him and he couldn't resist asking one question.
“How come none of those watchmen have ever shot that wolf?”
BOOK: The Wooden Mile
5.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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