Pete and the Five-A-Side Vampires Read online

  ‘Wow!’ he said when he got up close and saw the empty eyes and broken teeth. ‘That’s really good – if I didn’t know better, I’d think you really WERE a zombie!’

  The zombie opened his mouth wide and grinned. And Pete, seeing the blood trickle out (and more of it drip from a gaping scar where the poor unfortunate’s neck had been sliced wide open), knew he was in the presence of the REAL THING!

  ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet a real-live zombie – haven’t you, Blob?’

  But Blob was nowhere to be seen. Quite clearly he hadn’t. (Though actually it’s zombies who are supposed to be scared of dogs, not the other way round, as I think I told you before.)

  ‘Oh, I’m not a real-LIVE zombie…’ sighed the zombie. ‘I’m a real DEAD one! Well, a real UNDEAD one, to be exact.’

  ‘Coo-ul!’ Pete rustled his bag, and held it under the zombie’s nose. Well, where his nose would have been if he’d had more than just a hole, oozing snot. ‘Fancy a chip?’

  Blob barked, from under the bench. He was keeping well out of the way of zombies. Well, real ones, anyway. (And he wasn’t barking because Pete was giving away the last of his chips. Blob had scoffed a load of them already.)

  ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ said Pete, coming over to see him. ‘You’re not going back to being a scaredy-basset again, are you? Come on – Fancy Dress Night’s a time for being brave!’

  And then Pete heard the noise himself – a fiendish howl from down the bottom of Short Bridge Street.

  ‘Aw-roooooo!’

  And there it was, bounding towards them! Another Hell Hound!

  ‘Hey, how did anyone else know to paint their dog black?’ said Pete. ‘It was only you and me that ever saw them, Blob!’

  But, ‘Oh my giddy aunt!’ he gasped, as the Hell Hound came closer and Pete could tell, for certain sure – by its long, low fanginess and by the grisly-green glint in its eyes – that it wasn’t just any old Llani dog in disguise.

  ‘They must have found their way back down off the mountain, Blob!’ he gasped.

  But they hadn’t. Because there was only one of them, not ninety-nine.

  And it was giving Blob the dirtiest look in the whole history of dirty looks.

  ‘Gulp!’ gulped Blob, scuttling back under the bench.

  Because you know who it was, don’t you? Yes, it was the leader of the Hell Hounds! The one who’d been king before Blob had taken away his crown. The one who’d slunk away, never to be seen again, when Pete’s best and bravest pet had stood up to him.

  Only now he was back – back to get revenge! And Blob hadn’t a hope in heck of hiding, unless…

  ‘It’s OK, Blob,’ whispered Pete. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  And he went forward, holding up his bloodied hand.

  ‘STOP!’ he shouted. And the Hell Hound stopped.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Pete. And the Hell Hound looked past him, at the cowering Blob.

  ‘Oh, you want him, do you?’ said Pete. ‘You’re not still angry with my best basset, just because he took your crown away, are you?’

  And the Hell Hound snarled.

  ‘Well, we don’t want any dog fights here, not on Fancy Dress Night,’ said Pete. ‘There’s lots of little kids about, and you’d scare them – a whole heap more than they want to be scared.

  ‘So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,’ he went on, sternly. ‘There’s a competition for the best-dressed dog and I bet you’ll win it, Mister Hell Hound, cos you look way more scary than Blob here, and he’s the only other pet in fancy dress this year, as far as I can see.’

  The Hell Hound frowned.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get a crown…’ said Pete. ‘So you’ll be the King of the Hell Hounds again. Because Blob here doesn’t want to be king any more, isn’t that right?’

  And Blob, from under the bench, quietly yapped.

  ‘OK, stay here, the both of you,’ said Pete. ‘I’ll be back now in a minute or two. But no squabbling! And no scaring the wits out of any children, or you’ll cop it from me!’

  And he gave the long, low, slavering hound the last of his chips, to keep him quiet – the poor dab looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.

  So Pete rushed home, made a placard saying ‘HELL HOUND’, ran back and hung it round the Night Dog’s neck. Oh, and while he was at home he pulled an old Christmas Cracker crown, that he’d kept for some unknown reason, out of his bottom drawer.

  And the infernal basset went up to the top of Great Oak Street to wait for the judging.

  On the way through town Pete spotted another zombie. And another and another.

  But they were all just pretend, like him – with loads of lipstick or ketchup or whatever it was slathered over their faces to look like blood.

  And none of them were even half as scary-looking, never mind as eeky-beeky-yuksville as the real-live undead one Pete had met earlier.

  There were about a hundred vampires too, wandering around the place, trying to look scary.

  (So why is it that years ago everyone wanted to be Cinderella or Elvis or stuff, and now everyone wants to be vampires? That’s what I want to know.)

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ said Pete, bumping into an astronaut. ‘They’re all just people in disguise.’

  ‘Of course they’re people in disguise,’ said his dad, giving him a funny look. ‘That’s what fancy dress means.’

  ‘Fair do’s,’ said Pete. ‘But there ARE such things as real vampires! It’s just these aren’t them.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said his dad, not sounding convinced. ‘But how can you actually tell?’

  ‘Because real vampires, like Slurper Sue and Dracula’s Daughter – you know, the ones we played football with way back when – never come out till after dark.’

  ‘Don’t they?’ said Dad, scratching his head (well, his goldfish-bowl, actually). ‘Did we? Wasn’t that just a dream, Pete bach?’

  Blob was still waiting under the bench. Pete told him about the people dressed up as vampires he’d just seen, and they had a good laugh about how silly it was.

  ‘We might see some of our old friends later though, Blob, once it’s dark,’ said Pete, stroking his dog (and then wiping his hand on his jumper – it was all covered in black paint).

  There was even a werewolf!

  But Blob wasn’t too worried about that one. He could tell by the fake fangs, and the dog collar around its neck, that it was just old Winston from number 27.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Pete whispered to Blob, ‘there’s just too many of them for me to keep under control. Everyone else thinks it’s all just people in Fancy Dress, but some of them, like that zombie and the Hell Hound and heaven knows how many more, are the real deal – and they’re going to cause no end of trouble – I can feel it in my bones. I’ve brought my whistle with me, to try and keep them all in line, but I don’t know if it’ll work – not if there’s loads of them!

  ‘Have no fear…’ said a squeaky little voice. ‘The bwca-man is here!’

  ‘Hey, you’re back!’ cried Pete.

  ‘What about my back? What’s wrong with it?’ The little fellow spun around, trying to look over his shoulder.

  ‘No, I mean you’ve returned,’ explained Pete, trying not to giggle.

  ‘Of course I have,’ came the reply. ‘I wouldn’t miss Fancy Dress Night – I’ve been coming for a hundred years or more.’

  ‘Wow!’ Pete was impressed. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you again – give me five!’

  ‘Five what?’ said the minor miner. ‘Five taps with my bangity-banger?’

  ‘Hands up, then!’ said Pete, instead. And he slapped the little fellow’s spiky fingers.

  ‘There’s always loads of us bwcas here on Fancy Dress Night,’ said the tiny man. ‘Haven’t you noticed before?’

  ‘Well…’ said Pete. ‘I did used to wonder why quite so many kids were dressing up as miners… I never recognised any of them, so I always thought they
must have been bussing them in from Aber or somewhere. And they’d never answer when I asked them who they were, so I thought maybe they only spoke Welsh.’

  The bwca-man laughed. ‘It’s just nice to be able to wander round town for once without any of those horrid car-things belching smoke and noise all around the place, and trying to flatten us every time we try to cross the road. Can’t abide them, me…’ he said.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Pete. ‘Town’d be much nicer without them.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re never any trouble,’ said the bwca. ‘Not on Fancy Dress Night, anyway. No, the ones you have to look out for are all the ghosts and ghoulies, raising themselves up from the graveyard…’

  ‘Really?’ said Pete.

  ‘Oh yes, and the witches and wizards, wandering around pretending they’re humans…’

  ‘Pretending they’re witches and wizards…’ added Pete, with a grin. ‘And the zombies and Hell Hounds, too – I’ve seen them already.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the little bwca-man. ‘It’s the one day of the year when all the creatures of the night are safe to come out before it’s even dark, and parade up and down the streets, because everyone thinks they’re just people in fancy dress. The thing is that some of them just can’t stop themselves from scaring people – I mean, REALLY scaring people. So that’s another good reason why me and my friends have to be here, to sort it all out.’

  It was time for the judging of costumes. Everybody gathered in Great Oak Street, and the judges, including the much-loved local ex-Member of Parliament, Limpit Epoch, wandered up and down among them picking the best.

  ‘Ta rum, ta ra!’ came the announcement, over the tannoys. ‘Can the following people please come up to the stage…!’

  A rustle of excitement ran through the crowd.

  ‘The Alien!’ cried Limpit.

  ‘The Dalek!’

  ‘Dolly Pardon!’

  ‘Lady GaGa…’

  And they all went up and received their prizes.

  Then, ‘The Hell Hound!’ he announced.

  ‘Told you so,’ whispered Pete, to the slavering creature standing just a little too close to Blob. ‘You’re king again!’

  The Hell Hound made his way up onto the stage, and Limpit reached down and placed the crown for best-dressed pet (that Pete had passed him earlier) upon his head.

  Then, ‘The Zombie!’ cried Limpit. ‘The one with the revolting ear!’

  ‘Wow! That must be me!’ said Pete. And he followed the Hell Hound up, and had a medal hung round his neck.

  ‘Hey, what about me?’ came a voice, pushing his way through the crowd. ‘I’m a better-looking zombie than him!’

  It was the real zombie. And he was not a happy bunny.

  Limpit Epoch took him to one side.

  ‘We like to give the prizes to young people, if possible,’ he whispered, trying to work out who it was he was talking to. ‘Are you young, by any chance?’

  ‘Young!’ hissed the zombie. ‘I’m not even alive!’

  ‘Well then…’ said Limpit, unfazed. He was used to people having tantrums, working in the House of Commons, like he did.

  ‘Yes but I’m a REAL ZOMBIE!’ growled the zombie. ‘And if you don’t give me a medal, I’ll … I’ll…’

  He opened his mouth wide, and blood dripped out.

  Limpit Epoch turned pale – even rival politicians didn’t usually threaten to eat you – but suddenly a little miner-man hopped onto the stage, carrying a shiny silver star.

  ‘This is for you,’ the bwca hissed at the zombie. ‘It’s one I made earlier. Now get down off the stage and stop scaring people!’

  ‘For me?’ said the zombie. ‘You made it specially for me?’

  ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh!’ the zombie gasped. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me! I’ve never had a silver star before!’

  And he pinned it to his heart, causing foul-smelling pink goo to trickle out and down his chest.

  Then off he went, into the night, grinning through his bloodied teeth, and singing a sweet little song.

  ‘I’m a zombie,

  I’m a zombie,

  And I’ve got a horrible scar.

  I’m a zombie,

  I’m a zombie,

  And I won a silver star…’

  ‘And now,’ cried Limpit Epoch, ‘I would like to invite to the stage the one and only… Hillary Clinton!’

  Only it wasn’t Hillary Clinton. It was actually Mrs Walters, Pete’s unfavourite neighbour. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Clinton!’ said Limpit. ‘As one ground-breaking politician to another, it gives me great pleasure, on this wonderful occasion, in this historic place, to…’

  ‘Jack it in, Epoch, and make with the prize, will you?’ snarled the highly regarded American politician, grabbing the medal.

  ‘BOOOOO!’

  cried Pete (dressed as a zombie, remember).

  Then

  ‘BOOOOO!’

  cried the one hundred vampires, the seventy-two bwca-men, the alien, the dalek, the astronaut, Dolly Pardon, Lady GaGa – in fact everyone in the crowd…

  Everyone except Blob and the Hell Hound, that is, who…

  ‘Aw-roooooo-ed!’

  instead of boo-ed, at the top of their hound-dog voices.

  Because not one of them was the slightest bit impressed at Mrs Walters’ rudeness. It was NOT the sort of way you’re supposed to behave, especially on Fancy Dress Night – grabbing prizes before they were even offered…

  Insulting your very own, very famous, ex-Member of Parliament, who went out of his way every year to be there…

  Mind you, they wouldn’t have dared boo Mrs Walters to her face normally, oh no, not a one of them.

  But the advantage of everyone being in fancy dress is that Mrs W, up there on the stage glowering down at the angry crowd, couldn’t recognise anyone. So even if they were her neighbours – and THEY were the ones booing loudest, of course, because it wasn’t just Pete and Blob she was always being crabby with – well, there’s not a single thing Mrs Whingey Walters could do about it.

  Hah! So much for dressing up as one of the most powerful women in the western world!

  Just then, while Pete’s attention was on the stage, Michael Jackson ran past and pinched his medal, singing…

  ‘I’m BAD … I’m BAD … you know it!’

  ‘Hey,’ yelled Pete. ‘That’s mine!’

  And he took off after him, followed by Blob, the Hell Hound, the zombie and the little bwca-man.

  They chased him down Short Bridge Street, over the river and caught him on the other side.

  ‘You’re MEAN as well as bad, whoever you are – stealing people’s medals!’ cried Pete, tearing off his mask.

  And guess who it was? Billy Beggs, the playground bully!

  Well, the Hell Hound pinned him to the ground, the little bwca-man tapped him on the knee-cap with his hammer, three times in quick succession… (Only gently, though. Pete made sure of it.)

  And the zombie (the real one, that is) lay down next to Billy Beggs and breathed zombie-breath all over his face till he was begging for mercy. (It’s like a mixture of garlic, manure and death, is zombie breath. Just so you know.)

  ‘Stop! Stop! I’ll never be nasty again!’ sobbed Billy.

  ‘You’d better not be, you big baby,’ said Pete, ‘or me and my friends here will come and find you while you’re sleeping, and … well, I won’t tell you what we’ll do, but you’re not going to like it. Not one little bit…’

  And then, with a crash of drums, a screech of feedback, a screaming of guitars and a roaring of rock, the music started.

  Live music, on Long Bridge Street.

  More, pouring out of the Lentil Café, onto Great Oak Street.

  Even more, and louder still, raising the roof in the United Services Club.

  Dancing! Shouting! Fun, fun, fun!

  And as if that wasn’t enough, the vampires appeared. The REAL o
nes, now that it was dark enough for them to wander about at will.

  Yes, Vladimir and Veronica, skipping down the street, arm-in-arm… Gnasher giving Dracula’s Daughter a twirl… Slurper Sue, Eeky Edward and Revolting Ronnie eyeing up the butcher’s window (like they might be considering a midnight raid) … Frankenstein’s Folly and Horrible Harvey having a friendly little chat with Limpit Epoch.

  And lastly, but definitely not leastly, Bloodsucking Bert – chasing Mrs Walters all the way home.

  But where was Pete, while all this mayhem and madness was going on?

  He was heading home – down Long Bridge Street, over the river, up Westgate, turn right into Swansea Terrace – with his faithful low-slung basset at his side.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it, Blob. I don’t know about you but I’m just about done in, me. So if there’s any more trouble,’ he said, ‘I’m sure the little bwca-men can sort it out. Fancy Dress Night is a barrel of laughs but, to tell you the truth, I’m starting to think I prefer quiet nights, myself – when it’s just you and me, the darkness, and whatever the night may bring…’

  And what did Blob say?

  Waggity wag. Yap yap.

  First published in 2014

  by Firefly Press

  25 Gabalfa Road, Llandaff North, Cardiff, CF14 2JJ

  www.fireflypress.co.uk

  Text © Malachy Doyle 2014

  Illustrations © Hannah Doyle 2014

  Malachy Doyle and Hannah Doyle assert their moral rights

  to be identified as author and illustrator in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.