The dog threw itself at the fence, barking like a mad thing.
‘Down, down,’ the man yelled, yanking at the leash.
I looked for Rude Word. He was hiding behind Noah, who was hiding behind The Moan, who was hiding behind Jenny, who was hiding behind Jamie. Jamie had his eyes shut, which he believed made him invisible.
‘Can’t you kids read?’ the man shouted.
‘Yes, we can read,’ I replied, ‘including Jamie, as long as there aren’t any big words.’
‘Read that then,’ he growled, pointing with his truncheon to a big sign that said:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
‘Got that? It’s dangerous here. There’re hazards. Building sites aren’t playgrounds. Now clear off.’
‘Actually,’ I replied calmly, ‘we’re on the street, which belongs to everyone.’
‘Don’t you cheek me, you little hooligan. You were climbing over this gate, and don’t deny it. And you can thank your lucky stars you never made it, because this dog here hasn’t had its dinner yet.’
So, it was true! They really were trained to eat little boys! I gulped.
‘I was just trying to get my stick,’ I said.
‘What stick?’
I looked around. ‘That one,’ I said, with relief, pointing to a knobbly twig on the other side of the fence.
Now, I like sticks. Not as much as Jamie, but I like them. They’re one of the best things for playing with when you haven’t got any real toys. And the great thing about a stick is that if you break it in half, you haven’t got a broken stick, but two sticks. Cool, eh? Try that with a machine gun or a bazooka.
The Group 9 guy went and picked up the stick. He came back and held it out to me, over the top of the gate. As I was about to take it, he whipped it away and dangled it in front of his dog. The hellhound’s eyes lit up, and it clamped down on the poor stick with its deadly jaws and mashed it to bits in seconds. Then it ate the shreds.
Without another word the guard turned round and went back to his little hut, dragging the dog with him. Just as they were disappearing, Rude Word came out of hiding and gave one feeble bark, but when the Group 9 dog turned for a last snarl, he whimpered and hid behind Noah again.
Chapter Six
THE TUNNEL OF DOOM OR DEATH OR SOMETHING
‘I NEVER WANT to see that thing again,’ said Noah, still trembling slightly. ‘I mean, what kind of dog was it anyway? It didn’t look like any species I’ve ever seen before.’
I was going to tell him my theory about it being a cave-man dog, then it struck me. We were confronted by something way worse than a mere Neanderthal dog. I’ve already mentioned the list of the world’s most evil dogs, and this one was on that list for sure.
‘It was Zoltan,’ I said, ‘feared Hound of Dracula.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw him on the telly when we had a babysitter who let me stay up. It was so scary I made myself forget. But that’s definitely him.’
The Bare Bum Gang all nodded solemnly. Now we knew what we were up against: the evil Group 9 security machine, plus Zoltan, Hound of Dracula.
‘What now?’ said The Moan. ‘We can’t get over the fence because it’s too high, and we can’t get over the gate because that dog will eat us, and the guard will shovel up the remains and send them back to our parents in a plastic bag.’
‘Maybe we should just go and play in the den,’ said Noah.
‘I might go to my karate practice,’ said Jenny.
Jamie did a large burp.
Rude Word woofed.
For a second I weakened. The guard may have been horrid, but he did have a point about building sites. They can be dangerous places and kids shouldn’t really play there. But this was an official quest. We were on a chivalrous mission to save the Holy Grail, or maybe some golden sticks.
I took a deep breath. ‘There’s another way,’ I said.
‘In your dreams,’ said The Moan.
‘Not quite in my dreams,’ I replied. ‘More like in my nightmares.’
That got their attention.
‘Surely,’ said Noah, his voice trembling, ‘you don’t mean . . .’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said The Moan.
Jamie burped again, but this time his meaning was clear: I think you’re mad too.
‘What are you lot talking about?’ said Jenny.
‘He’s talking about the tunnel. The Tunnel of Doom,’ said The Moan.
‘Hang on,’ I said ‘I don’t think we can really call it the Tunnel of Doom.’
‘Why not? It’s a tunnel and we’re doomed if we go in it.’
‘Because we had the Valley of Doom in our last big adventure, and it makes it sound like we’ve run out of good ideas to call things.’
‘Well, what do you suggest then, clever clogs?’
‘What about the Tunnel of Terror?’
‘No.’
‘The Tunnel of Tears?’
‘No.’
‘The Tunnel of Death?’
‘Maybe. Not sure.’
‘Tunnel of Poo,’ said Jamie, his first words that weren’t in burp language for ages.
‘That’s actually not bad,’ said The Moan, ‘because in fact that’s what it is, a tunnel full of poo.’
‘Look,’ said Jenny angrily, ‘would someone please tell me what you’re talking about!’
I looked at her with my most serious face. It was the sort of face you see on the telly when the doctor has to tell someone they only have twenty-four hours to live.
‘The Tunnel of Death—’
‘Or Poo,’ said Jamie.
‘The Tunnel of Whatever is the old sewer that went to the little houses that used to be where the tower is. There’s a place where you can get into it outside the fence, and another place where you can get out of it inside the fence. It’s the only way.’
‘But how do you know about it?’
‘We used to do it as a dare sometimes. I mean, the dare was to go through the tunnel to the wasteland. But no one ever made it all the way. They always came back after a few metres. It was too foul down there.’
‘You always got covered in poo,’ said Jamie.
‘It wasn’t poo,’ I snapped. ‘Just brown stuff.’
‘Yeah,’ said The Moan, ‘brown stuff that came out of people’s bottoms.’
‘And you want us to go down the same stinky sewer?’ said Jenny, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘Even though no one has ever made it all the way through? You’re crackers.’
It was time to take control again.
‘None of the kids who failed were on a noble quest like us. Remember, we’re like the Knights of King Arthur. I’m Lancelot, The Moan is Sir Gawain, Noah is Sir Galahad, Jamie is Sir . . .’ But then I ran out of Sirs. Luckily Noah came to the rescue.
‘Sir Tristan.’
‘Exactly, Sir Tristan. And Jennifer is Queen Guinevere.’
‘Queen Yuck!’ said Jenny. ‘I’m the best fighter, so I should be Lancelot.’
‘That’s not right,’ I replied, ‘because then I’d have to be Queen Guinevere. Let me think . . . OK, you can be Sir Gawain, Jenny, and The Moan can be Queen Guinevere.’
‘No way,’ grumbled The Moan. ‘If I’m Guinevere I’m definitely going home.’
‘Are there any other spare Sirs?’ I asked Noah in desperation.
‘Sir Bors.’
‘Sir Boring! You just made that up. No way I’m being him.’
‘He was Lancelot’s brother, actually,’ said Noah. ‘But if it makes you happy, I’ll be Guinevere, and you can be Galahad.’
‘That’s really noble, Noah,’ I said, and I think the whole gang were impressed by his supreme act of self-sacrifice. ‘Right,’ I continued. ‘Now that’s settled, let’s get on with this quest or we’ll never make it home in time for Doctor Who.’
‘Do you remember where the tunnel is?’ Noah asked.
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I think that maybe he was hoping I wouldn’t.
But I did remember, and I led the gang around the perimeter fence to the right place. Between the road and the fence there was a dry ditch. The opening was in the side of the ditch. You could hardly see it to begin with, as it was covered in weeds and rubbish.
I jumped down into the ditch and scraped away the garbage. There was a rusty metal grate as big as a dustbin lid.
‘Help me,’ I said, looking up at the others.
Noah jumped down, and together we pulled. It had been opened before, but it still took both of us using every bit of strength we had to make it move. Finally it came away, revealing the tunnel, stretching before us into the darkness. It was just big enough to crawl through on your hands and knees.
‘I’m not going in there,’ said Jenny. ‘Not for a million pounds.’
‘Me neither,’ said The Moan. ‘It stinks like a badger’s bum.’
‘I don’t like tunnels,’ said Jamie. ‘What if I get stuck and have to live down there for ever like a rabbit? And I don’t even like carrots.’
Rude Word woofed.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’ But I was frightened too.
And then something unexpected happened. Little Noah, famous for not being very brave, and for not liking the dark or smelly things, got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the dark smelly drain.
He looked back over his shoulder. ‘You lot coming or not?’ he said, and then crawled on without waiting.
The rest of us looked at each other. I think the others were feeling a little ashamed. First Jenny, then Jamie, then The Moan and then Rudy followed Noah into the Tunnel of Terror (I’d decided that was probably the best name for it). I was at the back, which is one of the most dangerous places to be when you’re in a tunnel, because of possible attacks from the rear.
Chapter Seven
GOING UNDERGROUND
TO BEGIN WITH all I could see in the gloom was Rude Word’s big hairy bottom.
It actually didn’t smell that bad – I mean the sewer, not Rude Word’s bottom, which usually niffed pretty rotten, despite all the licking he gave it. It hadn’t rained for a while, so the bottom was dry. I mean the bottom of the tunnel, not Rude Word’s bottom. In fact, to avoid confusion, from now on when I mean Rude Word’s bottom, I’ll say Rude Word’s bottom, and when I mean anyone else’s bottom, or the bottom of a tunnel or any other kind of bottom, then I’ll just say bottom.
I hope that’s clear.
‘Everyone OK?’ I shouted.
My shout echoed along the tunnel in a most spooky manner.
‘Can’t see a thing,’ came an echoey voice back.
‘Let me through,’ I said. ‘I’ve got my torch.’
I pushed past Rude Word, The Moan, Jamie and Jennifer. It was a tight squeeze, and I ended up getting a bit stuck with Jennifer – which was pretty embarrassing, I can tell you, especially as there were about three seconds when her lips were squidged up against my cheek. Someone might have said this counted as kissing, but that would be completely unfair, as this was a matter of life and death, not just yucky girly kissing stuff.
Finally I was level with Noah.
‘Do you want to go first, with the torch?’ he asked.
I looked along the sewer. It was pitch black except for the tiniest blip of light from what must be the exit, miles away, it seemed.
‘Mmmmm,’ I said, ‘I think maybe I should shine the torch over your shoulder, so you can see where you’re going. In any underground adventure, the Torch Bearer is the most important position, and they shouldn’t be right at the front in case there’s a pit or trap or something, or a surprise attack. If anyone falls into a trap it shouldn’t be the Torch Bearer. Definitely not. Because then, er, there’d be no one to bear the torch. And no torch to bear. Which would definitely be a disaster. So you carry on being first, as you’re more dispensable.’
‘Thanks,’ said Noah, but I don’t think he meant it. In fact I think he was being sarcastic, which was all wrong. Being sarcastic was The Moan’s job.
‘I don’t mean that in a bad way, Noah,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Being dispensable is also one of the most important jobs, after being Torch Bearer. And Leader, of course. In fact, in any adventure, underground or overground or in mid-air, you can’t get by without the dispensable one. The dispensable one is, er, indispensable. Everyone knows that.’
‘Can we get on, please?’ said The Moan from behind us. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this blinking hole.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, and gave Noah a little push.
I shone the torch over his shoulder. The walls of the sewer had once been red brick, but now they were blackened with dried slime and other nasty things. If you got all the tunnels in the world and put them in order of nastiness, this one was definitely in the top five per cent, although it was probably better than a tunnel bored into your brain by a creature that’s crawled into your ear.
The next ten minutes was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life – and remember, I’ve got a baby sister, so I know all about misery.
Sweat began to run down my face and into my eyes, making them sting. Everything ached – my hands, my knees, my back and my head, every time I bashed it on the roof.
Obviously, The Moan was the first to moan.
‘This is rotten,’ he said. ‘I want to go home.’
‘My knees hurt,’ said Jenny. ‘And I think there’s a hole in my tights.’
‘You should have worn trousers then, like a normal person,’ said The Moan.
‘No arguing,’ I said. ‘If we fight amongst ourselves, the enemy will pick us off one by one.’
That did the trick. There was no more arguing, and everyone kept on crawling forwards. It was hard work, but each time I looked up, the light in front was a tiny bit bigger.
I noticed that every few metres there’d be a sort of side tunnel, smaller than the main sewer. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard scuffling, rustling noises coming from them, along with a nasty, musty smell.
Then, suddenly, Noah stopped. I bumped into him, and Jenny bumped into me.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I heard something.’
‘What?’
‘Squeaking.’
‘You mean like a rusty gate?’ I said hopefully.
‘No. Not like a gate. Like a . . . like a rat.’
Now, I knew that, in normal circumstances, rats are not very dangerous. However, these were not normal circumstances. These were special circumstances. And in certain special circumstances rats are extremely deadly dangerous. One of those special circumstances is if you corner them. Being cornered changes a rat from a nice peaceful (if dirty and annoying) little fellow into one of the most vicious and lethal beasts in the universe, comparable to a jaguar, T. rex, or saltwater crocodile (which is the scariest sort of crocodile, especially if you’re at the seaside).
If you corner them (the rats, I mean, not the crocodiles, although that is also not to be recommended) they leap straight for your neck and rip your throat out, leading to blood spurting everywhere and a horrible death, as bad as, or maybe even worse than, death by burning, drowning, electrocution, being eaten by jaguars, etc., etc.
The other situation in which rats become evil, deadly homicidal maniacs is when you enter what is known as their ‘home territory’.
And everyone knows that the home territory of the rat is the sewer.
‘Did he say rats?’
That was Jenny, still scrunched up behind me. Now I had turned into a sort of sandwich, with Noah in front and Jenny behind. And there’s nothing a rat prefers to eat more than a sandwich, whether it’s cheese, ham or boy.
‘I don’t like rats,’ she added unnecessarily.
With my hand shaking just a little bit, I shone the torch ahead.
And there, gleaming back, were two points of evil yellow light.
Noah screamed.
I screamed.
Jenny screamed.
The Moan screamed.
Jamie burped.
Then things got really bad.
More yellow dots.
Equals more eyes.
Equals more rats.
Equals more screaming.
It was now that I had to call on all my qualities as a Leader, i.e., dauntless courage, extreme genius and grace under pressure.
‘Rude Word,’ I yelled. ‘Din-dins.’
I heard a wet snuffling sound from behind, and my fat dog came squeezing up.
‘Din-dins’, you see, means dinner in doggie language, and it was the only call Rude Word ever responded to. I took his ugly mug in my hands and made my speech.
‘Listen, Rudy,’ I said, staring deeply into his poo-coloured eyes. ‘I know you let yourself down badly when you hid from that big nasty dog Zoltan earlier on, but now’s your chance to make up for it. Many heroes have been cowardy custards for a while, such as Achilles when he sulked in his tent, but then he lost his temper and marmalized millions of Trojans. And that’s what you have to do, except with rodents instead of Trojans. You see, ahead of us there lies an army of killer rats. If we go forwards, they’ll tear out our throats and drink our blood, like a horde of zombies and vampire bats—’
‘Oooooooooo,’ groaned Jennifer.
‘And if we turn our backs on them and run away, they’ll probably gnaw through our bums and then eat us from the inside out, until all that’s left is a load of skellingtons, with fat rats in the middle of them lying around licking their lips, rubbing their swollen tummies, burping, etc., etc.’
‘Oooooooooo,’ groaned everyone.
‘So, Rudy,’ I continued, ‘it’s all down to you. Understand?’
All through this speech, Rude Word had been looking at me carefully, expecting me to produce his bowl with his dog meat in it. Now he gave a sort of whining yawn that went like this: ‘Yyyaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwpppp.’
That meant he was ready.
It was now or never.
I pointed down the tunnel at the yellow rats’ eyes, and I repeated, ‘Din-dins.’