Fizzlebert Stump (7 page)

Fizz mumbled his name so hurriedly and so quietly that it sounded a bit like, ‘Fll-ll-ll Lump.’

‘Pardon?’ the old lady said.

She’d got a notepad and a pencil out of her handbag and was waiting to make a note.

This was where it had all gone wrong before, Fizzlebert thought. Up until he told those kids his name they’d been all friendly and kind, but the moment he’d said it out loud they’d all laughed and ran off. They’d thought it was stupid.

He didn’t want the same thing to happen again. It was one thing to be laughed at by kids your own age, but to be laughed at by a pair of OAPs would take the biscuit. (Interesting phrase that: ‘takes the biscuit’. I’m not sure what sort of biscuit it is that’s being taken, but I’m in favour of biscuits generally and to have them taken away is never a good thing. (Unless, of course, you’ve eaten a whole packet already, in which case it’s probably in your own best interests that they be removed.))

Suddenly a thought came into Fizz’s brain, like the ping of a microwave oven saying ‘this idea is now ready’.

‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Smith. John Smith.’

(There was a rigger at the circus called John Smith and Fizz had heard him moaning about having such an ordinary name, which was probably why it had come to him at just that moment, when he needed a normal name to use.)

The old lady wrote it down on her pad and said, ‘Okay. You call us “grandma” and “grandpa” and let us do the talking. You’ll be a fully signed up member of the library in no time at all.’

Now, while they’re going into the library and signing Fizzlebert up, I’d best have a few words with you readers. (After all, filling in forms isn’t the most interesting bit of the story and I’m sure they can get on with it perfectly well without my having to describe every move.)

Fizzlebert had grown up, you must remember, surrounded by grownups. There weren’t any other kids in the circus (although some of the clowns acted like kids with their makeup on). In some ways this meant he was more sensible than a lot of boys his age. He could talk to adults as if they were normal human beings and didn’t feel he had to simplify things or talk slowly so they would understand. He wasn’t shy. He could play several sorts of poker, lasso a runaway horse, and wasn’t afraid to put his head in a lion’s mouth.

However, growing up in such surroundings also meant he’d never learnt that, as a general rule, it’s not a good idea to talk to strangers in the street.

Think of it this way. Every lion Fizz had ever met had been sweet and friendly and liked being scratched behind the ears. But if Fizz were to meet a lion out on the plains of Africa one day, that is to say in the wild, then he would be silly to assume that the lion would behave like the lion he had grown up with. Does that make sense?

Just because all the people he knew were adults who were also good people, it doesn’t mean that all adults elsewhere are going to be so friendly and kind. (Some of them will be, but some of them won’t. Some people are just mean.) And it’s for this reason that you should be careful about talking to strangers, especially if you’ve wandered away from the circus and no one knows where you are.

While I was saying all that, Miss Toad filled in the forms and Fizz was now the owner of a brand new library card.

‘You’ve got one book here already, Mr Smith,’ Miss Toad rumbled, pointing to
The Great Zargo of Ixl-Bolth and the Flying Death Robots of Mars
which was still on her desk. ‘Do you want to go choose some more before we check them out?’

‘Go on little Johnnie,’ said his ‘grandma’, ‘you get yourself a couple more. What fun, eh?’

Fizz walked very quickly round to the children’s section. (He did that sort of walk where really you’re running, but you want everyone else to think that you’re just strolling, not in any hurry, you know, all casual like, but which actually ends up looking nothing at all like walking
or
running, just a sort of rapid upright stiff-backed silliness.) He quickly picked out three other books and brought them back to the desk.

Miss Toad scanned his card and then scanned each book and stamped the due date in the front.

‘There you go,’ she belched, and pushed them over the counter towards him.

‘Thanks,’ he said, excitedly.

Tucking the books under his arm he headed for the library door, followed by his pretend grandparents. They all waved goodbye to Miss Toad who pushed her glasses back to the top of her head, popped the blue biro back in her mouth and slumped happily back down into her chair.

Once the door had trundled open and shut again and all three stood on the pavement outside Fizz said, ‘Goodbye then. Thanks very much for your help, you were really kind. Thanks again.’ (Like I’ve said before, he was a polite boy.)

The old lady leaned towards him, peering down her nose at him.

‘What do you mean, “goodbye”?’ she said. ‘Oh dear. You can’t leave us just like that, little Johnnie. You’re going to have to walk us home.’

‘Walk you home?’

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s what grandsons do for their grannies, isn’t it?’

‘But I’m not your – ’

‘Oh yes you are,’ she said sharply before he could finish his sentence. ‘You are my grandson
now
, darling little Johnnie, and you’d better start behaving properly. I don’t believe we brought you up to have manners like this.’

Fizz was confused. Was she playing a game? Was she being silly? Was she, perhaps, mad? He hadn’t been worried before, but now he began to find doubts crawling around inside his head, their little spidery legs tickling his brain.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding braver and more confident than he felt. ‘I’ve really got to go now.  You’ve been really kind and I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .’

‘Little boy,’ she hissed, leaning in so close that he could smell her pepperminty breath, ‘you are coming home with us, and you are coming now.’

(There are only two reasons people eat mints: either they have something to hide; or they like mints.)

‘Oh yes!’ shouted the old man, punching the air. He had his eyes shut and looked as if he was listening to something no one else could hear.

‘You don’t know much about libraries do you?’ she asked. ‘Do you know what happens if you don’t take a library book back on time? Do you?’

‘No,’ Fizz said, quietly.

‘It’s the cane, my boy,’ she said. ‘It’s one smack on the palm of your hand for every hour the book is late. And you’ve taken four books out.’

‘But . . .but,’ he stuttered, ‘they’re not late back . . .’

‘Ah, but the library is ever such a strict place. They punish you for all sorts of things. You were lucky you didn’t run, weren’t you? You could’ve been kept behind, could’ve been in big trouble. You’re lucky you didn’t make a loud noise either. You didn’t know it’s against the rules to chew gum or to whistle or to dance, did you? You didn’t break any of those rules, because you were
lucky
. But if you had . . . oh, then you would have been in big trouble.’

‘But I didn’t – ’

‘No, you didn’t. I know. But now you know what the library is really like, the sort of strictnesses they impose. So, what sort of punishment do you think they’d have if they found someone
stealing
their books? What sort, eh?’

She prodded him with a bony finger.

‘Um,’ he gabbled, ‘a bad one?’

‘Oh, yes. And look at you, my little thief. Four
stolen
books under your arm, bright as day and bold as brass. For four books they’d probably lock you up downstairs. Throw away the key. No one likes a rotten thief, do they?’

‘But, I’ve
not
stolen – ’

‘Well, that depends on how you look at it,’ she said, slowly running her dry wrinkled finger down the side of his face. ‘Our
grandson
hasn’t stolen any books, no.
He’s
borrowed some books. And our
grandson
is coming home with us. If, on the other hand, you tell
anyone
that you’re not our
grandson
, then your library card is
invalid
, because the forms weren’t filled in correctly . . . because you
lied
to the authorities . . . and those books under your arm have
not
been borrowed. They have been
stolen
 . . . and you’re in big trouble indeed.’ She hissed these last words right into his face. He could feel the mist of her minty spit moistening his eyeballs.

‘So, what is it, John?’ she said. ‘Does our grandson want to come home with his poor old grandma and grandpa? Or do we have to tell Miss Toad that you are a little liar and leave you to her and her dungeon?’

Fizzlebert felt his mouth fall open and his hair go limp as he looked from this menacing old lady, to her smiling husband, to the big sign that said ‘Library’ (which now looked more scary than it had seemed two minutes before) and tried to work out what he could or should do now.

And I’m afraid we’re going to leave poor Fizzlebert in this unpleasantly tight corner at the end of the chapter. I have to admit, if I say so myself, it’s a bit of a tense one. Crikey.

But first, I should mention (though I’m sure it goes without saying) that that old lady is telling huge lies about libraries. They’re nice places, full of books and CDs and the like, and full of nice, friendly, quiet people, and the only punishment for an overdue book is a small cash fine. Even making a loud noise now and then will only get you a gentle, ‘Shush please,’ from the librarians.

But, as you know and I know, Fizz doesn’t know any of that. He’s only just found out what a library is, he’s not to know they aren’t as strict as this strange old lady is saying.

Oh, another thing I ought to mention now. You might be wondering why I’ve not told you the old lady’s name (or that of her husband). Well there’s a reason for that. Her name is Mrs Hilda Stinkthrottle (and her husband’s name is more or less the same, except with a Mr Arthur at the front), and there’s just something about the sound of it which isn’t very nice. I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t want you to prejudge her. After all, she might’ve turned out to be alright. Some old people are.

So there we go, that’s that done, Chapter Five is now finished, all that remains for me to say is, roll on Chapter Six.

Chapter Six

in which horrible things happen and in which a remote control is waved in the air

Mr and Mrs Stinkthrottle walked away from the library with Fizzlebert in tow. (They weren’t actually towing him, they hadn’t tied a rope around his neck and led him away, but the threat she had dangled over him acted in pretty much the same way.) He was forlorn and troubled and hopeless. He didn’t know what else he could do.

It’s all very well you saying he should have run away, because, yes, of course he should have. They were old people and old people don’t run very fast, but Mrs Stinkthrottle had shown Fizz her mobile telephone (which was in her handbag). She had the library’s phone number on speed dial, she said, and if he dared to make a bolt for it, she would phone them up without hesitation and then he’d be in trouble for sure. Maybe the police would have to get involved.