Mr. Gum and the Goblins. Andy Stanton

in the Dead Of Winter?’

      ‘There are no strange spirits, kind Friday,’ chuckled Alan Taylor. ‘Methinks you have been spending too much time in the taverns, listening to the idle tales of drunken fools!’

      ‘Hey,’ said Polly. ‘Why’s everyone a-talkin’ all funny like in weird old books? We only done came out to gets a takeaway kebab.’

      But just then a horrible wailing noise rose on the wind like an out-of-tune opera singer being dragged down a blackboard. Polly and Alan Taylor jumped in fright and Friday did a dozen press-ups in terror.

      ‘WURP!’ he trembled. ‘What was that?’

      ‘I gots no idea,’ gulped Polly. ‘But I don’t likes the sound of that sound one little bit.’

      ‘What if . . .’ squeaked Alan Taylor, bravely weeing himself in fear. ‘What if it’s Mr Gum?’

      Now, at the mention of that name they all went very quiet, because there was nothing worse than Mr Gum, not even accidentally falling into a volcano full of history teachers. For Mr Gum and his no-good friend Billy William the Third were the worst criminals Lamonic Bibber had ever seen. And they had done some of the most shocking things of all time, including:

      1. Trying to poison a massive whopper of a dog called Jake to death and destruction

      2. Trying to steal a billion pounds off poor little Alan Taylor

      3. Tons of other stuff I can’t think of at the moment

      ‘But Alan Taylor, no one’s seen Mr Gum for ages,’ said Polly.

      ‘Nonetheless, he might have come back,’ replied Friday gravely. ‘For as the famous saying goes – “He might have come back.” Let us investigate!’

      And the three friends set off to see what was what, their lanterns swinging hopefully against the darkness. With each step they took the wailing grew louder, until –

      ‘It’s coming from the alley behind Mrs Lovely’s sweetshop,’ said Friday, and even as he said those words, a hunched-up figure appeared in the narrow passage, staggering towards them with outstretched arms like a mummy. Not the nice type of mummy, obviously. The type with dusty old bandages who’s always chasing you through museums at night because you dug them up out of their pyramid because you were a scientist and that’s what scientists do.

      ‘But hold on,’ frowned Polly. ‘We haven’t been messin’ around in no pyramids lately. That can’t be a mummy after all. Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s Mrs Lovely! An’ she’s been all duffed up an’ mangled!’

      ‘NO!’ cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue. ‘NO!’ he cried into the cold, cold night. ‘NOOOO!’

       Chapter 2

       Talk of the Devil

      But alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and she collapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.

      ‘What happened to thee?’ Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?’

      ‘Save your questions, Friday,’ advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.’

      So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:

      Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.

      ‘DEMONS!’ cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘’Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!’

      ‘You’re right, Jack!’ shrieked another. ‘’Tis demons for sure!’

      And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.

      ‘Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘We’re not demons.’

      ‘Not even slightly?’ asked one of the men folk anxiously.

      ‘No,’ said Polly firmly. ‘You lot’s drunk too much beer an’ it’s turned your brains all fuzzy an’ full of bad ’maginations. Now go home, men folk, an’ get some sleep. An’ don’t blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder.’

      ‘OK, nine-year-old girl,’ said the men folk, ‘you’re the boss, for some reason.’ And off home they went.

      ‘I do apologise about all that demon talk,’ said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs. ‘But though they were drunk, the men folk were right to be afraid. You never know WHO’s going to come through the door in this terrible season, when spirits and ghouls are at large. Why, only last week an evil skeleton came in and did a poo on the carpet. How I hate the Dead Of Winter!’ he exclaimed. And the Innkeeper showed the heroes to a cosy little bedroom with wooden floorboards, bowed once and disappeared back downstairs.

      With great care, Friday dumped Mrs Lovely down on the little bed. Polly fetched a flannel and gently she scrubbed the slime from Mrs Lovely’s goodly face. And Alan Taylor hopped up on to her chin and gently he flossed her goodly teeth.

      ‘I shall take first watch,’ said Friday, pulling up a chair. ‘If she wakes I will wake you too. But until then, she must not be disturbed. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he sometimes liked to do.

      At once Mrs Lovely’s eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright in bed like a startled panda caught shoplifting bamboo.

      ‘Whaa? Eh? Boing?!’ she gabbled, looking around in confusion. ‘Where am I?’

      ‘Fear not, Mrs L,’ exclaimed Friday, ‘For ’tis I, your beloved husband, me.’

      ‘Oh, hello, Friday,’ said Mrs Lovely weakly. ‘What’s going on?’

      But suddenly she caught her breath and drew the bedcover to her cheek in terror.

      ‘Goblin Mountain!’ she murmured in the flickering candlelight. ‘Now I remember!’

      ‘Tell us your tale, dearest wife-face,’ said Friday, tenderly