Billy Angel (6 page)

‘She's reading a really outdated witchcraft manual. She's not even got the revised edition. Personally, I wouldn't use it as bog paper.'

I sighed. ‘Look, is there something you want to tell me, Gaby, because I really don't like all this hocus-pocus wizardy stuff. It's just not my bag. Are you a witch?'

Gaby pouted. ‘Of course not. I'm just extremely well-read.'

She folded her arms and went into a sulk. But it didn't last long because just then Thelma stood
up and rang the bell. Seconds later, the bus stopped and she and her trolley hurried away.

‘Come on!' Gaby yelled.

Then we leapt off the bus and chased after her.

Thelma was heading for the hospital.

‘Well, that's one place we can't follow,' I said, cheerfully. ‘We can't exactly stalk her while she visits her sick granny.'

‘She isn't going in,' whispered Gaby.

She wasn't. Thelma walked straight past the hospital entrance and round the corner, where a sign was pointing to the medical school.

We followed at a distance, trying not to look too conspicuous (which was almost impossible, what with me struggling with my giant tool bag that clanked and rattled every time I moved). But, miraculously, she didn't notice us.

‘She's not going to the medical school, either,' said Gaby.

She wasn't. Thelma walked past the main medical school building, took a side path and then disappeared through a black doorway.

‘Hell's bells,' breathed Gaby, pointing to a sign:

‘What is it?' I asked, somehow not quite wanting to know the answer.

Gaby gasped. ‘That's where they keep all the pickled people!'

‘What do you mean pickled people?' I literally downed tools. My bag landed heavily on my toes but I didn't care. I just couldn't lug the thing any further.

Gaby rolled her eyes. ‘An anatomy library is where they keep specimens – you know like feet and hands and skeletons… It's where medical students learn about how the body works! Don't they teach you anything at school?'

I scowled. ‘And what school do you go to – Winnie the Witch comprehensive?'

‘I'm home-educated, actually,' she spat back.

We glared at each other, and then Gaby shrugged. ‘Look, now is not the time to fall out. We've got to get in there and see what Thelma's doing.'

I shook my head. ‘Whatever she's doing in there, I don't want to know.'

As soon as I'd said it, I felt a nipping around my ears again. I jiggled uncomfortably on the spot.

Gaby shot me a look that seemed to say: you
are the oddest boy I've ever come across. Then she sighed. ‘Well, I'm going in.'

And that's when I got cross. I don't know whether it was the nipping around my ears, the exhaustion from lugging my tool bag, or just Gaby's grumpy face, but suddenly I reached the end of my fuse. And I sort of exploded.

‘Look! Wait one minute. If anyone is going in there, it's me!' (The nipping suddenly stopped.) ‘I mean, this is my story. I'm the angel here – OK?'

Gaby froze. Her face turned pink and she looked like she was about to say something, but then thought better of it.

‘You're right,' she mumbled. ‘So, come on then. What are we waiting for?'

‘Exactly,' I agreed.

I hauled up my tool bag and we headed for the door.

Despite my bravado, I was quaking in my steel toe caps (regulation plumber's wear).

‘What's that smell?' I gasped, as we pushed through the first set of double doors.

‘Formaldehyde,' whispered Gaby. ‘It's the pickle juice.'

Through the second set of doors, the smell
got worse. We were now standing in a corridor in front of another set of double doors. Above was a sign:

Underneath was a smaller sign:

I checked my watch. It was only 11.30.

‘It should be locked,' I whispered.

Gaby gave the door a push. ‘Well, Thelma must have found the key.'

With a pounding heart, we crept inside. I half expected Thelma to be waiting, pie slice in hand, ready to pop me straight into a pickle jar. But she wasn't anywhere to be seen. In fact, there was no one there at all, at least no one alive…

At first it just looked like a storeroom: there were wooden shelves, benches, filing cabinets. And then I looked more closely, and realised what was on the shelves – rows and rows of jars. A bit like the big ones you get in the chip shop. You know, with pickled onions and beetroot in them. But there were no onions or beetroot in these jars. There were feet and hands, fingers and ears… and bits I didn't recognise at all.

I shuddered, but it was strangely fascinating. Even to a big scaredy-cat like me, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

‘I'll go through to the next room,' whispered Gaby, ‘and see if I can spot Thelma. You keep watch.'

I nodded. But I didn't really register what she said. I just stood there, slack-jawed, peering at the various parts of people in the jars. One particular pot caught my attention. It contained an eye. I gasped. There's something about a
sightless eye, with its raggedy edges, and milky-white surround, peering back at you from a small glass jar. My stomach lurched. Visions of bloodied fish eyes suddenly filled my brain. I felt another heave, and looked around desperately for something to barf into, but all I could find was my tool bag. Dad would disown me. I just couldn't do it. So I clamped my hand over my mouth and tried to swallow instead.

And then Gaby appeared.

I coughed and shuffled my feet. The last thing in the world I wanted was for her to see how green I was feeling. I'd never hear the end of it. But luckily she didn't notice.

‘Come on!' she shrieked, pulling me away from all the jars. ‘Thelma's coming!'

We ran back through the doors and out along the path, ducking behind a large tree just in time to see Thelma walking briskly past, pulling her shopping trolley behind her. I noticed with a shiver that the trolley was obviously heavier than before, as she was using two hands. And what was that big bulge down one side?

‘Bones!' whispered Gaby. ‘A whole trolley-load of them.'

‘What?' I gasped.

‘She pinched a skeleton. I saw her do it. She just opened one of the cases, pulled out a skeleton, and stuffed all the bits in her trolley.'

‘What does she want a skeleton for?'

Gaby frowned. ‘It's all pointing to a zombie spell, if you ask me.'

‘A what?'

‘You know – bringing a body back to life. She's got all the ingredients: fish eyes, pigs' hair, newts' feet, and a big bag of bones…'

I laughed. ‘Don't be ridiculous! What would Thelma want with a zombie?'

‘Maybe she doesn't want to get her hands dirty,' said Gaby. ‘If she's planning to kill this ex-boyfriend of hers – what's he called, Charlie Pittam? – well, it would be much easier to get a zombie to do it…'

‘That's just bonkers,' I gasped. ‘People don't go around getting zombies to murder their ex-boyfriends.'

‘Nor do they get visited by scary-looking angels in the middle of the night.' Gaby folded her arms and put her nose in the air.

She had a point. The world had gone mad. And one further step into la-la land, seemed quite reasonable.

I shrugged. ‘Just supposing what you say is true. How can we stop her?'

‘Well, it might help if we know whose skeleton she's just pinched. If he was a murderer or something, we would know what we're up against.'

‘A
murderer
?' I gasped.

‘Oh, yes – in the olden days, murderers' bodies were often handed over to medical students, you know, after they'd been hung…'

My throat suddenly started to tingle, and I was having trouble breathing.

‘All we need to do is look up his name,' she said cheerfully. ‘There must be a records office in the medical school. They'll be able to tell us what he was hung for.'

‘But we haven't got a name,' I grumbled.

‘Yes, we have,' said Gaby smugly. ‘It was written on the glass case. I could see it clearly – Stan Spooner – which doesn't sound much like a killer to me…'

‘Stan Spooner!' I gasped. ‘It can't be.'

My heart started to race, and I felt that annoying nipping sensation again – except now it was even more intense. ‘That's the name of the champion pie eater who choked to death at Potts' Pies in 1956.'

‘How do you know that?' said Gaby.

‘Oh, you know,' I said shakily. ‘I'm just extremely well-read.' I stood up. ‘Come on, I'll tell you everything on the way home.'

‘Home?' Gaby shook her head. ‘We can't go home, Billy. Don't you see what this means?'

‘No.' I definitely did not.

‘If this Stan Spooner guy is some sort of competitive eater – and tonight's the night of
the big pie-eating competition, then there must be a link. Thelma's clearly planning to turn Stan into a zombie and get him to bump off her ex-boyfriend at tonight's competition. Come on. We've got to stop her!' Gaby grabbed my arm. ‘We'll take the bus,' she said firmly. ‘And we'll still beat Thelma home. Trust me, she'll be walking. She won't want to risk someone taking a close look at that shopping trolley.'

I lugged my tool bag back to the bus stop and wished that I had just Dreamed the stupid Dream. Plumbing had to be easier than all this do-gooding.

Once again, Gaby was right. When we got back to Thelma's street there was no sign of her. I checked my watch. Four o'clock.

‘Two hours to go before the pie-eating competition,' I said.

‘Two hours to stop Thelma,' said Gaby.

We climbed over her garden wall, me still with my big tool bag, and Gaby trying not to get mud on her boots. Then we took up position behind the compost heap. The fact that it stank and was covered in slugs and worms didn't bother me. I was getting used to disgusting stuff.

And then Thelma appeared, dragging the trolley with her. She didn't even glance at the house, she just headed for the shed. When I say shed, you're probably thinking small wooden hut for keeping your lawn mower in. But you'd be wrong. This shed looked like a Swiss chalet – you know, the type of place Heidi lived in.
It was enormous, with fancy, fluted windows and a porch. I even found myself wondering whether it had its own loo. (Mental note: must stop thinking plumber-type thoughts: personally I blamed the bag – it seemed to be infecting me.) Anyway, Thelma and the trolley disappeared inside.