The Dragons Of Wayward Crescent: Grabber Page 2

  Inspector Bumble gave Henry a disapproving frown. “If I were you, I’d use that for cooking, sir. Unless you want to end up in the police station yourself.” He tipped his trilby hat towards Liz. “Thank you. We’ll let ourselves out.”

  And then he and his sergeant were gone.

  “You too,” Liz said to Henry Bacon. She took back her pan and pointed to the garden like a referee sending a footballer off the field.

  Henry gestured to the broken glass. “Unfinished business, Mrs P. I’ll pop round later. Fix this in a jiff. Probably find an old piece of glass in a skip. Not worth paying for new.”

  “No you won’t,” Liz said, pushing him out. “We’ll get a professional glazier in. And take this with you.” She pressed the empty flour bag into his hand. It gave out one last feeble puff.

  “But—?”

  “Go, Henry.” She closed the door in his face before he could argue.

  As Mr Bacon trooped solemnly away, Liz reached up to a shelf, grabbed a telephone directory and plonked it down with a dusty thwap on the worktop. Gruffen watched in fascination as she thumbed its yellow pages for entries beginning with the letter ‘G’ for glaziers.

  “Mum, wait,” Lucy said. She put her hand on the book, preventing her mum from turning the pages. “The dragons must know what the robber looked like.” She glanced at all three in turn. Gauge nodded and spoke in dragontongue to her. “See? Gauge says he was old and fat, in a black woolly hat. If we tell the police, they’ll catch him right away.”

  Liz grabbed Lucy’s hand and moved it onto the worktop. “And how are we going to explain that at a trial?” Mimicking a judge’s deep voice, she said, “How did you come by this description of the accused, Miss Pennykettle?” Then she mimicked Lucy’s reedy voice. “Oh, my dragon told me, m’lud.”

  Lucy folded her arms and tutted in defeat.

  “Now, glaziers,” said Liz. “This one should do.” She pressed her finger to an advert in the book. “Mr R. Badfellow. Twenty-four hour glass repair service. Local, too.” She picked up the telephone and dialled a number. “Hello, Mr Badfellow? Yes. I wondered if you could replace a couple of panes of glass in my back door for me? No, we had a break in last night. Nothing much stolen, thankfully.”

  Lucy snorted heavily at that.

  “The name is Pennykettle. We’re at 42 Wayward Crescent. Hello? Did you catch that? You sounded quite surprised. 42, yes. Thank you. Thank you very much.” She put the phone down. “He’ll be round in half an hour. At least we won’t have a gale blowing through the house tonight.”

  “We should tell the police what the robber looks like,” Lucy said glumly, falling back with a foot raised flat against the fridge. It rocked a little, making the listening dragon hurr. “We need to get our dragon back.”

  Just then, the letterbox rattled. Lucy looked up the hall in time to see two letters fall onto the mat. As they did, an idea popped into her head. Letters. She opened her hand and looked at Inspector Bumble’s card. There was an address on it. Maybe…? “I don’t have to be here when the gazer comes, do I?”

  “It’s glazier,” said Liz. “No, you don’t.”

  Lucy grinned. “OK. I’m going to my room now.” And calling Gauge and Gruffen to follow, she hurried upstairs.

  Chapter Four

  Meanwhile, in a small untidy house on a large untidy estate, Mr R. Badfellow, glazier by trade, was tapping his chin and looking thoughtfully at the telephone. “Well, this is a very rum do,” he said. “A very rum do indeed.” His gaze travelled to the canvas bag of tools on the floor, particularly at the flashlight which he sometimes used for his evening work. “Risky,” he said. “Very irregular. Not in the rules of robbing at all.” He put his hands into his threadbare pockets. “Could be a trap. Could be rozzers afoot.” He hummed and picked up a cracked old mug, took a swig of stale tea and scratched his bottom. Then he walked across the room, limping slightly from an ancient injury with a garden fence (one that he cared not to think about) and wagged a finger at the little green dragon he had locked into a bird cage he’d nicked from a house in Upper Scrubbley one time. Looking into its strangely violet eyes he said, “In this bizness, one ’as to be careful crafty.”

  Hrrr, went the dragon, pricking its ears. Faster than the human eye could see, it put a paw through the bars of the cage and grabbed the end of the man’s finger.

  Mr R. Badfellow smiled. The gaps in his teeth were plugged by fish. Tuna, ice cream, the occasional red apple and boiled eggs with soldiers was all he ever ate. “You’re a very strange trinket, you are,” he said. “Worth every barley sugar in that bag.” He glanced sideways at a pair of bowed wooden shelves, which were straining under the weight of two or three dozen sweet shop jars, all containing different kinds of sweets. “And maybe worth a lot more than sweets,” he muttered as his eyes turned misty and he glanced at a picture of a young boy with a teddy bear, hanging on the wall. He returned his gaze to the cage. “I would like to find out more about you. So I will fix this lady’s glass. I will return to the scene of my robbing. I will scrutinize. I’ll sniff. My eye will peruse. My ears will wiggle. Then we’ll decide what’s what, little grabber.”

  Hrrr! went the dragon, making the cage rattle.

  Mr Badfellow smiled. “Grabber. I like that. A good name for a robber’s mate, that is.” With a tug (for the dragon was surprisingly strong) Mr Badfellow freed his finger. “You stay in your cage and be good, you hear? Old Ron, he’s got a little call to make…”

  Chapter Five

  By the time he’d turned up at Wayward Crescent, Mr Badfellow had donned a disguise. No black boots or jacket or hat. For his glazing work he always wore denim bib overalls, heavily smeared with dobs of putty, over a T-shirt turning yellow underneath the arms. He had also pulled on a filthy white cap, with a peak so beaky that it curved like a sunshade over and around his thick-rimmed glasses. Just for good measure, a false moustache now rode above his top lip. No one, not even the dragons of Wayward Crescent, would have recognised him as Ron the robber.

  On arrival, Liz invited him from the front step down the side of the house. She met him again at the kitchen door.

  “Tsk tsk,” he said, as he inspected the damage. “That’s the work of a robber for sure. There are some scoundrels about and no mistake.”

  “Yes,” Liz agreed. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Very kind,” Mr Badfellow said, using the politest voice he could. “Two bags and four sugars, with just a drop of milk, so it looks like treacle.”

  “Erm, right,” said Liz. She flipped open the lid of the kettle and filled it.

  Mr Badfellow took a tape measure from his overalls and proceeded to size up the broken glass. “So, did the rogue take off with much?”

  “Only one thing. A dragon. I make them.”

  “You make them?”

  “Yes. You sound surprised.”

  Very bad, thought Ron. Very bad indeed. A slip in the voice. A sign of guilt. “Just shock,” he said, coughing into his fist. “It’s always the sentimental trinkets that go.”

  Liz nodded and plugged in the kettle.

  At that moment, Mr Badfellow glanced across the kitchen and caught sight of the listening dragon on the fridge. “Is that one them there?”

  “Yes,” said Liz.

  “My, it’s got wondrous big ears, has it not?”

  “All the better for listening with.”

  “I see,” said Ron. “It listens, does it?”

  “Only if you speak its language,” said Liz. She smiled.

  Mr Ron Badfellow, the robber, smiled back. Very odd, he thought. Very strange indeed. Here’s me fibbing through my fishy teeth. But what about this lady? Could she be fibbing too? Teasing, perhaps? About her dragons?

  “The robber left us some sweets. Would you like one?” said Liz.

  Mr Badfellow gulped. A band of sweat was building up beneath his cap, making his deepest wrinkles itch. “No, thank you, missus, not good for the teeth.”

 
Liz had one anyway. She rather liked sweets.

  Against his better judgement, Ron found himself asking, “What kind of a robber would leave you a gift?”

  “I don’t think he’s a proper robber,” said Liz.

  “You don’t?” Mr Badfellow gulped again.

  “No. I think he’s doing it because he’s unhappy.”

  “I see,” said Ron, though he didn’t much really – his false glasses were beginning to steam up. This lady, he was thinking. Most odd indeed. Nail, poink! upon the head she had hit. He was unhappy. But how could he say? He couldn’t. The truth must never come out.

  “Will the job take long?”

  Ron stared at the glass. “Half an hour. Good as new.”

  “Wonderful,” Liz said, moving out of the kitchen. “Give me a shout when you’re done.”

  She put a barley sugar into her mouth and was gone.

  And so Ron the robber continued his work and was true to his word about the timing. After thirty minutes the glass was repaired. He called Liz back.

  She inspected the door. “Smashing – sorry, no pun intended. How much do I owe you?”

  “Twenty pounds should clear it. Do you mind if I use your facilities?”

  “Facilities? Oh, you mean the bathroom? Yes, of course. It’s the room facing the top of the stairs.”

  “Much obliged,” said Ron. Here was his chance. The moment to investigate further had come. Upstairs he went, treading softly, creaking the same steps he’d creaked the night before.

  As he reached the landing, the first thing he noticed was a sign on the door to his left. It was hand-painted, gold and green, with bright orange flames leaping up around the lettering. DRAGONS’ DEN. It was the room where he’d found the little grabber at home. The perfect place to start his snooping. But as he was reaching out to turn the handle he heard a girl’s voice in the room next door. He paused with a start.

  “OK, how does this sound?” she was saying.

  Ron crept along the landing and peered through the crack between the door and the frame. The girl was sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading a letter to two more dragons.

  “Dear police, this is a nominuss tip-off. I know who did the robbing in Wayward Crescent. He is quite old and dumpy. He wears a black woolly hat and jacket and boots. He speaks in a growly voice like a bear. And he smells of fish. Please catch him quickly. A friend.” She picked up a pen. “Shall I put a kiss on it?”

  Mr Ron Badfellow turned away. Not good, he thought. Not good at all. Clocked by dragons. Voice overheard. Something must be done. Action taken.

  Hearing Lucy moving, he went to the bathroom and quickly flushed the toilet. Then he hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where Liz handed him twenty pounds.

  “Thank you,” said Ron. He stuffed the money into his overalls pocket, then turned and stared at the listening dragon. So, this one could hear voices, could it? “Very pretty,” said Ron. “A rare bauble indeed. Do you mind if I…?” He reached out a hand.

  “Not at all,” Liz said. “Just be careful with its ears.”

  “As a mouse,” said Ron, meaning he’d be gentle, which indeed he was. And clever, too. For there was a small glob of putty concealed between his fingers. Using all the deftness he would use with glass, he rubbed his thumbs deep into the petal-like ears, then smiled and put the listener back onto the fridge. There, no one would talk to this dragon in a hurry and ask it questions about any robber.

  “You didn’t finish your tea,” said Liz. “Would you like a fresh one before you go?”

  “No, thank you,” said Ron, picking up the mug. “I like it cold, missus.” He was about to take a slurp when Lucy scooted into the kitchen.

  “Oh, hello,” she said to Ron.

  He coughed, making his false moustache jiggle.

  Lucy sniffed the air for a moment. “Are we having fish tonight?” She frowned at Ron. Suspiciously, he thought. He hastily put the mug to his mouth and began to swig the remainder of the tea.

  Lucy shrugged and turned to her mum. “Can I have a stamp, please? First class. Now.”

  “What’s so important that it needs a first class stamp?”

  Mr Ron Badfellow knew the answer, but he wasn’t going to hang around and hear it said. He drank the last of the tea and even rinsed the mug in the sink for good measure. “I’ll be off, then,” he said and strolled out without looking at either Liz or Lucy again.

  But he’d only gone a few yards when he heard Lucy squeal. “Agh! Mum! There’s an earwig in the sink!”

  “Don’t be silly,” said her mother. “Show me. Where?”

  “I flushed it away,” Ron heard Lucy say.

  Earwig? He felt the top of his lip. Strewth! There was no moustache! It must have come off in the tea! And the girl had seen it and thought it was a wriggler! Heart pounding, he walked on as fast as his limp would allow. He’d had a lucky escape. A lucky escape indeed! He took off his glasses and wiped his brow. Then he threw his bag into the back of his van and roared away up Wayward Crescent.

  Chapter Six

  Now, while all this was taking place, the new dragon had not been idle. Since the moment that Ron had named him Grabber, some strange ideas had been running through his mind. For a start, he’d had a very strong urge to break out of his cage.

  It was a pleasant cage with good views all around the room, but there was something about being behind bars which troubled him. It troubled him so much that shortly after Ron had left the house, Grabber had gripped two bars in his paws and tried to pull them wide enough apart so that he might slip through and fly free…

  …but the bars were too strong and he sank back with an exhausted hrrr.

  Then he had the peculiar idea that he might angle the scales on his tail in such a way that he might use them to saw through the bars…

  …but that just hurt his tail.

  Then his violet eyes settled on the small brass lock on the cage door. His ears pricked as his mind began to understand its workings. How he could do this, who could say? But somehow he knew what was needed to unlock it. Quickly, he flipped his tail through the bars. Then, curving the tip right round so that his very last scale (which dragons call their isoscele) was pointing at the lock, he pushed his tail into the keyhole and twisted it. The lock gave a satisfying click. The bolt snapped back and the door clicked open.

  And Grabber was out!

  Ron’s house was no palace, it has to be said. His front room was frankly a dreadful mess. Unwashed plates were slid under chairs. Apple cores were wedged down the sides of the sofa. The carpet smelled of milk gone sour. The nets at the windows were so thick with grime that they shut out three-quarters of the morning sun. And, as if things weren’t shabby enough, strung from wall to wall was a loopy washing line, upon which several pairs of socks and some underpants were drying. A pair of dirty boots were up there too, hanging from their knotted laces.

  Shocking.

  As for possessions, Ron had next to none. Apart from a small TV in the corner (with a wonky coat hanger for an aerial) and a tea-stained radio and a vase of flowers (Ron did like a nice spray of lilies) there were very few objects of interest or value. But on the mantelpiece above a gas fire with charred and broken radiants, Grabber found a small drawstring bag. It was full of matches. He hurred on one. To his delight the match set aflame. Yet it was the bag, not the matches, that intrigued him the most. So much so, that after a few seconds some irresistible urge made him tip the matches out and sling the bag across his shoulder, where it seemed to lie, quite naturally, as if his body had been made for it. He tapped his foot and looked around, using his eyes like flashlights in the gloom. He saw a spinning top Ron had recently stolen, flew to it and set it in motion. In fact he rode it round the floor for several minutes and nearly turned his brains to soup in the process! When at last he grew tired and fluttered off, he landed groggily on a sideboard where he found a small, padlocked treasure chest. With a rush of excitement he dibbled the lock and flipped the clasp. There were s
ome shiny pebbles inside. He took out a purple one and hurred on it gently. Its glassy centre twinkled like a star. Grabber wrinkled his snout. A strange word, ‘SWAG’, came into his mind. He popped the pebble into his bag and drew the string. It seemed the most natural thing to do.

  Then, almost by chance, his eye was taken by the picture on the wall of a little boy and an old teddy bear. The same one Ron had stared at earlier. Grabber tilted his head this way and that. He grizzled his teeth. He tapped his foot. He swished his tail. Why a photo of a teddy should catch his imagination he couldn’t say. Was it the soulful look in the teddy’s eyes? Or the innocence in the boy’s, perhaps? Or was it the grubby thumb prints on one corner of the frame that intrigued him? Mmm…

  Spreading his wings, he quickly flew to it and hovered just in front of the well-thumbed corner. Instinct encouraged him to touch the frame. The picture tilted and swung to one side, as if it had done this many times before. Grabber pushed harder. So hard that the picture jostled off its nail and slid to the floor. And lo and behold, hidden in the wall behind it was a safe.

  Now, Grabber had no idea what a safe was. To him it was just another thing to play with. He squeezed its handle. Nothing happened. He hurred on the handle. Still nothing happened. So he focused his attention on the large grey knob in the centre of the safe. When he grabbed it with his paws and turned it either way he thought he could hear a mechanism clicking. He pressed one ear to the metal and listened. Click, click, clickety-clonk…

  …kerdumph.

  Something had sprung. Another bolt, perhaps? Grabber tried the handle again. Charisma! This time the door swung open.

  Inside the safe was a heap of jewellery: rings and bracelets and fine silver necklaces. But on top of the heap was something rather odd. A lollipop. A round one, wrapped in shiny paper, on the end of a short white stick.