CHAPTER 1
THE FRIGHTFULLY TERRIBLE AND THOROUGHLY
HORRIBLE HOOLIGAN BOYS.
Our story begins in the beautiful English countryside. It was that time of year when young field mice fancy turns to thoughts of love. Our heroes were no exception; there were four of them. Their names were Wesley-boy, Spike, Pike, and the runt of the group Dougal; they were the only members of an exclusive gang of ruffians called “The Frightfully Terrible and Thoroughly Horrible Hooligan Boys.” They were preparing to go to town for the first time.
It’s a well-known fact in the countryside that field mice prefer to travel at night and only when the weather is good; if it’s raining and stormy they stay at home and talk, read or watch television. But our little band of hooligans didn’t worry about such things as bad weather; they were hormone-driven teenagers desperate for female company.
Dougal opened his bedroom window and peered out; above him the moon, pale and gaunt, fought its way through a sea of wind-ripped clouds; it seemed to be anxious to steer clear of something threatening, probably a spring storm; in fact the far horizon was already lit-up by flashes of lightning. There was a knock on the door and his three chums strolled into the room.
“Hello, Dougal!” Wesley-Boy sang cheerfully.
“And how are they hanging mate?” chimed in Spike; he skipped over to Dougal’s dresser and helped himself to a generous splash of Old Spice and Honey passion potion.
“Are you ready mate?” asked Pike with a glint in his eyes.
“Well yes,” laughed Dougal; “as it happens I’m ever ready!” They all laughed and pelted into the night as fast as their little legs would carry them.
The journey to town was uneventful except for the constant prattle about what they intended to do when they reached the town; it always ended with chasing skirt or something more vulgar.
They reached the outskirts of the town just as the first rays of the sun clawed away the darkness of the night. Wide-eyed and gaping with amazement they cast their eyes upon a sight the like of which they’d never seen before: orderly rows of neat houses; old walls thick with green moss and ivy; and thatched roofs with chimneys. A yellowish light filled some of the windows, and grey smoke curled lazily from some of the chimneys; the town looked so cosy and welcoming.
Many country field mice had relatives in the town; they were considered to be rich and successful and didn’t have to work at all. Food, and the good life, was provided for them. All they had to do was get up in the morning, go to the food cupboard and get whatever it was they wanted to eat. “Oh what a life!” the country field mice sang longingly and cast their eyes in the direction of the town.
Whenever country field mice spoke of their well-to-do relatives they’d inflate their chest and elevate their nose in order to emphasise their close link with the Upper Class of field mice society. But sadly, the rich relatives looked down their long noses at their country kin whom they regarded as below their social standing. In a similar fashion, field mice that lived in two-story houses looked down on those that lived in single-story houses as being their social inferiors. Field mice social scientists offered no end of speculation on the reason behind this rather offensive form of social separation; they generally came to the conclusion that it was because they spent too much time in the company of humans.
Upon arriving in town, country field mice would usually dash straight to their well-heeled relative’s house, whereupon they would secure the best rooms for an indefinite period of time and have their host supply them with tasty, highly processed human food that they enjoyed so much for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Not having a relative in town didn’t stop young field mice from making the dangerous journey to town, however; and as soon as it got dark enough they’d sneak away from home, when their parents weren’t looking, and scurry off as fast as they could. Once there the scallywags would usually end up having a thoroughly ripping time knocking on doors and running away; throwing stones at windows; and upsetting garbage bins for scraps of food. Field mice are also very fond of cat food, and they would stuff themselves whenever they came across it; the cats in their turn howled because their food bowl was empty; and humans yelled at the cats to shut up or they would be visiting the local Vet for a ‘snip and tuck’ first thing in the morning!
The local Vet’s name was Dr. Basil Scott, J.P. B.Sc. BVMS. M.A. and Ph.D. He was married to Caroline, had a daughter named Zoë and a son named Mathew. He also had a dog called Odin, a Siamese cat called Lotus, and many, many field mice of all colours, shapes and sizes which he collectively called something very unpleasant indeed.
The field mice lived happily in Basil’s big, warm, two-storey house; there was always plenty of delicious food for them to eat. Unfortunately, for Basil at least, most of the country field mice that visited his house ended up staying permanently! Basil despaired at the rapid overcrowding of his house, and the traps that he’d set weren’t working. He wasn’t aware that Zoë and Mathew disabled the traps as soon as he set them.
Wesley-boy saw the two-storey house; it looked just right! He made straight for it followed by his mates. They entered through a small door and scampered about meeting the locals. They then amused themselves chasing after and outraging as many young girl field mice as they could, and drank themselves silly on Basil’s home-brewed beer. They were home for good.
***
Zoë was the elder of the two children; she’d just awakened from a restless sleep. She rubbed her partly-closed eyes, yawned deeply, and immediately froze as rigid as a petrified log. Cold beads of sweat blossomed on her forehead and spilled into her eyes as she strained to see through the darkness; something big had just pulled itself onto her bed and was silently slithering towards her.
Zoë felt the creature’s rapid heartbeat and smelt its hot, moist breath. Scared stiff, she clenched her jaws tight as the thing settled itself quietly opposite her face; it twisted its body and craned its head towards her and sniffed her nose; satisfied, it pulled itself back and let out a loud meow. Zoë gasped and clasped her hands to her face; the thing that had frightened her half to death was Lotus, her big, fat, very cross-eyed Siamese cat; it purred and snuggled up to her; Lotus loved Zoë more than anyone else in the world.
Zoë flung her legs angrily over the side of the bed and onto the well-polished wooden floor. She fumbled for the light switch and glared at Lotus who looked back with big soppy eyes.
“You’re a really bad cat!” she said in a stern voice. Zoë pulled on her slippers, wrapped a pink dressing gown tightly around her, and shuffled off towards the kitchen; Lotus skipped cheerfully beside her, holding her tail high and purring like a well-oiled motor.
Zoë felt better after drinking a cup of sweet tea and eating a toasted crumpet with a thick cover of strawberry jam. Lotus sat next to her and happily cleaned her face with a well-licked paw – she loved to eat a little fish first thing in the morning.
Zoë hauled herself to her feet and moved to the window; she pulled it open and gazed up at the dark clouds sailing across the face of the dying moon. She shivered inwardly.
An icy rain had begun to fall. Zoë moved back from the window and as she did she got the shock of her life. In the dull yellow light of a street lamp crouched the most evil-looking, grotesque, hunchback creature she’d ever seen in any of the many fairy-tale books that she’d read. It was about the size of a dwarf almost three feet tall, but it definitely wasn’t a dwarf! She stared at it with amazement; then, as suddenly it appeared, it vanished!
“What was that?” Zoë cried, and catching her breath cast her now very big blue eyes up and down the length of the street. Lotus sniffed the cold air and without taking her eyes from the spot where the strange creature had stood just moments before hissed and spat fiercely and the hair along her back stood as erect as bristle on a toothbrush.
“There it is again!” Zoë cried all of a sudden. There was a sense of panic in her voice; the creature had materialised out of the mist and was cautiously tiptoeing from house to house, as would a hungry spider in search of its prey. Every now and then it would stop, jerk its head into the air abruptly and peer in all directions as if it feared something horrible was following it. Satisfied that it was alone, it would hunker down in front of the next house and carefully note its number before moving on. It was definitely searching for a very out-of-the-ordinary house. It was also obvious to Zoë that the creature was desperate to avoid something or someone before it found the house. Why? She had no idea, but she felt an icy tingle flash down her spine.
“I wonder what it’s up to.” Zoë said quietly. Lotus kept on growling and hissing as the creature hop-stepped and jumped into the misty, golden arch of a street lamp where, illuminated by the dull glow, it removed a crumpled piece of parchment from its pocket and studied it carefully before replacing it. A broad grin crept across its face and to Zoë’s horror it fixed its eyes directly on her! The creature squeezed its hands together with delight and quickly crossed the wet road towards her house.
The outward appearance of the creature was nothing short of spectacular: its arms were as long as those on a Howler Monkey, its fingers were as gnarled and twisted as a dried willow twig, and its legs were like those attached to a very big spider. Its face, however, made Zoë catch her breath: it had a trunk for a nose; ears that flapped with each hop-step and jump; and a pair of blood-red, compound eyes. As for its dress, the creature balanced a pink pointed cap on its head, similar in shape to that commonly worn by witches; bright-red, knee-length boots; and a navy-blue jacket with six gold buttons; it also wore a fancy purple shirt and a yellow bowtie.
Wide-eyed and mouth gaping, Zoë stared at the amazing creature; it grinned back and showed her a full set of needle-sharp teeth. Then something totally unexpected happened: It threw its arms high into the air and shrieked like a mad witch that had just sat on a big thorn and vanished in a flurry of loud bangs and brilliant red, white and blue flashes. Zoë pulled herself back from the window and rubbed her eyes briskly; she hoped that what she’d just seen was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.
“I must be over-tired!” she said, and took a peek out of the window one more time - just to make sure that her conclusion was correct; her lips parted into a smile, the creature had disappeared! But she was wrong! She failed to see the flying beastie whiz past her as she closed the window; it wore a navy-blue jacket, red boots, a pink cap, purple shirt, and a bright yellow bowtie. It sat on the wall next to a portrait of Basil and smiled with delight - it had found its very special house and its very special man!
Although Zoë didn’t know it at the time, the thing on the wall was in reality a goblin; but not just any run-of-the-mill goblin that one was likely to see in Deep Wood at any tick of the clock, but one that possessed dark and magical powers that allowed it to change its body shape into whatever species of living creature it wanted to be at any given time; all it had to do was to picture the thing that it wanted to be in its mind’s eye and say out loud three times “I wish, I wish, I wish I was a …” and zap! It was instantly transformed into whatever it wished itself to be.
***
Basil saw himself as the best veterinarian ever to have set foot on the sacred soil of
Caroline was, as a rule, a very tolerant woman and politely told Basil to shut-up. But Basil continued groaning; this time he focused his mind on storks, and his having drawn the ‘short straw’ when the stork landed on his parent’s chimney all those many years ago. “Storks should be shot on sight!” he grumbled darkly.
Caroline cast a scathing look at her malingering husband. “You’re probably coming down with the flu or developing a brain tumour. Or perhaps you’ve had a stroke and you don’t know it yet?” she suggested reassuringly. “Have you been taking those vitamins?” she asked tersely, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she waited for him to reply.
“Of course I have!” He lied unconvincingly. “And a fat lot of good they did me too! It’s the stress, woman; I should never have been a bloody vet!”
Basil had recently read an article on Chronic Fatigue Syndrome; he was convinced he had it because he had all the symptoms listed in the magazine, and a few more they’d evidently missed. There was no cure, and he should know because he’d tried every human and animal remedy he could think of at least once. He scratched his bottom and screwed up his face as he made another profound statement.
“And the lumpy bed didn’t help me sleep either,” he said sourly. “And now my back hurts as well!”
“And I suppose you’re blaming me for that too!” Caroline said angrily. Basil grumbled something under his breath and rolled his eyes to call attention to his suffering.
“And stop that scratching!” Caroline said loudly. “Why don’t you get up and have a shower?”
“What was that, my little snapdragon?”
Caroline sighed and buried her head in her pillow; she couldn’t make up her mind whether to thump him, scold him, or just pity him; she hadn’t finished with the scolding yet.
“I’m totally fed up with you, Basil,” she said very loudly. “I spend more time running after you than I do the children!”
Basil squinted at Caroline; he couldn’t quite grasp what she was trying to tell him.
“You’re absolutely hopeless!” she said loudly “and you’re totally off the planet this time!” Caroline sounded more than a little peeved about something. Basil grinned; the day mightn’t be so bad after all he decided. That was before Caroline’s big porker, Odin, took a high-spirited running jump and landed on his stomach with such force it knocked the wind out of him.
“And stop annoying the dog, Basil!” Caroline growled. “Can’t you see that he just wants to play? Anyway, it’s time you got up!” Caroline resigned herself to another Basil Day. “Have you packed the car yet?”
Basil couldn’t answer; he was trying to breathe. Then the importance of the day struck him like a ton of bricks falling on his head from a great height. “What time is it?” he shrieked, like a lunatic who’d been sitting in the light of an extra-bright moon for far too long, and snatched his watch from the side table.
I’ll leave the following description to the reader’s own imagination, because it was so fantastic: Basil leapt out of bed as if he’d just discovered he was sharing it with a poisonous Tiger Snake, and the stunned porker was catapulted across the room like a Rottweiler thrown from a Trebuchet - it thumped to the floor beneath a portrait of Basil arm-in-arm with a sour-looking Caroline.
“It’s
“What’s all the noise about?” he demanded and hotly complained about the unacceptable level of noise in the house for that hour of the morning. “You’ve really gone nuts this time, Basil!” He shouted after his father.
Zoë entered the room at that moment. “What’s all the shouting about, mum?” she asked and threw herself down next to her mother.
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Your father thinks its
“That’s definitely not right.” Zoë said examining her watch. “He’s really lost his marbles this time, mum.” There was a hint of hopelessness in her voice. “It’s only
“So the great Basil strikes again!” laughed Mathew and a sneer hitched itself to his narrow face.
Caroline fixed her eyes on Mathew; she didn’t want him to lose respect for his father. “Your father badly needs some time-out from the practice,” she said in a voice tapering off into the distance. “And I desperately need a holiday away from him!”
***
Basil gripped the porcelain basin so tightly that his knuckles shone white and bloodless. He groaned. The basin was splattered with blood mixed with soft dollops of shaving cream. He craned his head closer to the mirror and carefully studied the strange, twisted face staring back at him; it was a disgusting sight to behold, just like what you’d expect to see if you came face to face with a fresh Egyptian mummy being wrapped-up on the cheap; the face was covered with patches of blood soaked toilet tissue.
“Last time I’ll buy these El Cheapo razor blades!” he growled and dashed off towards the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. The Goblin-fly trilled loudly and quickly pencilled an entry into its ‘dog-eared’ notebook: Basil trying to disguise himself. Master must be told immediately. He then flapped after Basil as fast as his little wings would propel him.
Caroline had prepared a delicious banquet for breakfast; it included delightfully crispy bacon, free-range eggs arranged into an omelette with cheese, herbs and spices, pork and beef sausages that Basil made for therapeutic reasons (it relieved some of his pent-up stress), baked chilli beans, and fried tomatoes and onions; the lavish meal was followed by muffins topped with strawberry jam and sour cream, and washed down with cups of sweet tea.
Basil stroked his astonishingly distended stomach and burped so loudly that his lips rippled in the wind. “That was an absolutely splendid breakfast, my little Venus flytrap,” he said happily and drummed a tune with his fingers on his abdomen. “You know,” he said after a moment of deep inner reflection and letting-off a ripper burp, “it’s a crying shame we don’t have a meal like this every morning, dear.”
Caroline flung herself back into her chair; she couldn’t believe what she had just heard; and she had done her very best to make the start of their holiday a memorable one. Caroline’s eyes narrowed threateningly and she clasped her long fingers to the butter knife. “You’re an ungrateful beast!” she shouted in a pique of rage and hurled the item at Basil; he narrowly avoided catching it with his forehead and fell from his chair with shock.
“You didn’t so much as lift a finger to help me!” she shouted. “Well, I’ve just about had enough of you. From now on you can make your own breakfast!” Basil stared at Caroline from the relative safety of the floor; his jaw flapped but no sound came out. Basil couldn’t understand why Caroline was so upset.
Basil’s attention quickly moved to his chequered vest; there was something ghastly sticking to it. His eyes narrowed and his forehead crept down towards his eyebrows; he teased it free with his fingernail and sniffed it like a bloodhound following the tracks of a bitch in heat. He grinned, and satisfied it wasn’t something thoroughly disgusting left by the clinic cat, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it.
“I suppose we’d better get a move on then dear,” he said casually pouring himself another cup of tea and reached for another cream and strawberry bun. “I’ll finish packing the car then, shall I my little cactus flower?” He said raising his cup for another sip of tea. It was only then that he saw the well-dressed Goblin-fly sitting on the edge of his cup.
Basil stared at the strange fly. “Holy moly, it’s a Goblin-fly!” He screamed like a mad hag who’d just realised she didn’t have enough money for another gin and tonic and lashed out at the little creature in a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to beat the living daylights out of it with his spoon.
“It’s sitting on your head now!” said Caroline distantly; strange events like that were not uncommon where Basil was concerned.
“What was that, my little poison ivy?” he shot back testily. “You’d be sorry if it was an elephant sitting on my head!” A grin materialized on Caroline’s face; the thought of Basil disappearing up an elephant’s bum sent her into a fit of laughter. Sensing looming danger, Basil sprang to his feet and bolted for the door as fast as his long legs would allow; the Goblin-fly sat on his shoulder and trilled with excitement.
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