Casper Candlewacks in the Claws of Crime!

The long hot summer had toasted Corne-on-the-Kobb like a slice of granary bread on a beach holiday. The grass was parched and brown, the flow of the River Kobb had ebbed to a thirsty trickle and several pigeons had a serious case of sunburn. This was the worst drought that the Kobb Valley had seen since 1915, when the whole place became a savannah and some lions moved in and ate everybody. But that’s another story and the lions have politely asked me not to mention it.

Casper and Lamp crunched through the sun-baked park towards the village square. Lamp was dawdling behind, staring into space and smiling vacantly.

“What are you doing?” said Casper.

“I’m going to call it Daisy.”

“Call what Daisy?”

“My lie detector. It’s a lovely name.”

Casper sighed. “That might get confusing. Someone’s already got that name.”

“Who?”

“Daisy.”

Lamp scratched his head. “Oh yeah.”

“How about The Bluff Boiler?”

“That’s nice too.” He galumphed forward and giggled. “I’m in love.”

As the boys approached the square, the first thing they saw was ‘Blossom’s Bloomers’, a little terraced shop where ‘Murray’s Doorknob and Salami Emporium’ used to stand. Now it was fronted with a dark green awning and walls covered in flowering clematis. Outside the entrance were displayed hundreds of little plant pots holding geraniums, tulips and pansies of every colour, in front of muscular sunflowers and luscious lilacs. There was a queue of villagers trailing out of the door and halfway round the square, and more leaving the shop already loaded with bouquets of roses or baskets of wild grasses. The square itself was adorned with beautiful flowering wreaths on every door, window boxes filled with delicate petunias and vases stuffed full on every porch, beside every bench and lining the steps to the village hall. Finally, flapping at the top of the flagpole on the village-hall roof was not the normal tattered flag, but the most gigantic bouquet of multicoloured hydrangeas the world had ever seen since the world’s biggest hydrangea bouquet competition last year, which, admittedly, had some pretty massive bouquets of hydrangeas.

“Wow,” cooed Casper. “They must make a killing.”

“I’m going to buy some flowers for Daisy,” said Lamp.

“She’s probably got enough already.”

Through the window Casper could see Daisy wrapping up a large bunch of peonies while Lavender snipped some sweet peas from their stems and presented them to a blushing gentleman. Casper dragged Lamp away from the shop and into the square where Mayor Rattsbulge was trying to gather a crowd. So far he’d only managed to attract the attention of Clemmie Answorth (still clanging her bell), old Mrs Trimble and the flock of pigeons.

“Oi!” he shouted to the enormous flower shop queue, spraying greasy flecks of spit all over Mrs Trimble. “We’ve got an emergency here.”

The queue members just grunted and shuffled forward a bit. More people joined the back, sighing longingly with flowery business cards clutched to their chests.

The mayor bellowed, “Come here, you scoundrels! This is no time for flowers.”

“Ooh, are they selling flowers?” said Mrs Trimble, who owned twenty-six cats (all called Tiddles). She put on her spectacles and trotted off to join the queue.

Mayor Rattsbulge had had enough. “Fine,” he barked. “Nobody’s getting the cash reward…”

At the words ‘cash reward’, the villagers’ idiotic ears pricked up. They dropped whatever they were holding (such as babies, packed lunches or priceless Ming vases) and bounded towards the mayor like squirrels to a nut buffet, barging Casper and Lamp to the back of the crowd with well-placed elbows or teeth. Instantly the square was packed with penniless, greedy idiots, and the flower shop was empty.

“That’s better,” said Mayor Rattsbulge, taking a chomp of the Scotch egg that he’d put in his top pocket for emergencies.

“Oh, no, she’s here,” groaned Lamp, pointing to Casper’s right where a skinny little girl with long brown hair and a hawk nose approached them, hand in hand with her pointy mother.

Casper winced. “Anemonie Blight.”

In a recent poll, Anemonie Blight was voted the most evil girl in the cosmos (pushing the previous winner, Empress Vandraga ‘Slayer of Children’ into second place). Made from a pint of pure hate and a sprinkling of malice, then oven-baked in the furnaces of hell, Anemonie was only happy once she’d made somebody cry. Two weeks ago she’d burst Teresa Louncher’s eardrum in a game of Rock, Paper, Nuclear Explosion. Last time Anemonie had seen Casper, she punched him so hard that even Lamp got a nosebleed.

“She’s coming this way,” quavered Lamp, visibly shaking.

Casper crossed his fingers and closed his eyes. Anemonie was close – not more than five metres away now. He held his breath, prepared for the pain and waited, and waited, and… oddly, nothing happened. Casper dared to open an eye. Anemonie had walked straight past them, head down, hands deep in the pockets of her sickly pink jumpsuit.

Casper nudged Lamp, who had been cowering behind his hands. “She’s gone,” he said.

Lamp chewed his lip. “Why didn’t she hit me?”

“I know. That’s not like her at all.”

Casper watched as Anemonie stopped next to her pointy mother at a spot right at the back of the square and observed the scene from afar.

“Now, now,” drawled Mayor Rattsbulge, “give me your attention or I’ll raise taxes.”

The villagers hung on to the mayor’s every word like nits on a hippie’s beard.

“Somebody…” Mayor Rattsbulge’s bottom lip quivered, so he hid it behind a mouthful of Scotch egg. “Somebody…” – Scotch egg now swallowed – “has assaulted Betty Woons and stolen the bejewelled sword of Sir Gossamer de Glaze.”

Those who hadn’t already heard the news shrieked. Those who had already heard the news nodded knowingly, saying, “Haven’t you heard?” and, “Horrible news,” and made shrugging gestures.

“Now Betty doesn’t remember a thing because the thief hit her quite hard on the head…”

Betty Woons grinned at the crowd and then slapped the top of her head with her withered hand, tutting loudly.

“…and nobody else witnessed the crime at all. In fact, the only clue we have is this.” He felt around in his Scotch egg pocket and plucked out a wiry black cat’s whisker.

The crowd gasped.

“Yes, we worried this day would come, and I fear it has. He’s here. This whisker is the calling card of none other than the French cat burglar Le Chat!”

As those terrible words of Le Chat spread through the crowd like a snotty cold, jaws dropped in horror, eyes sprang with tears and mothers clutched on to their children like wriggly teddy bears. They’d all heard about him, they’d all been warned about him, but not once did they think he’d actually strike in Corne-on-the-Kobb.

“Now, few people have seen him in the flesh, but we believe him to look something like this.” Mayor Rattsbulge held aloft a large poster featuring a photograph of a regular black cat, with the words WANTED – dead or alive (preferably dead) hastily scribbled along the top in big black letters, and *Artist’s impression at the bottom.

Audrey Snugglepuss gasped. “I’ve seen him.”

Mrs Trimble went very pale. “But that’s… that’s Tiddles.”

The crowd screamed and pointed at Mrs Trimble. One person threw a shoe.

“Calm down,” bellowed Mayor Rattsbulge. “Nobody’s blaming Tiddles.”

The crowd stopped screaming.

Mrs Trimble sobbed, reached into her bag and dried her eyes on a newborn kitten.

The mayor straightened his mayoral gown (which he’d made himself by stapling together three rolls of red carpet material) and continued. “Now, the roads out of the village were guarded last night, and they have been ever since. This has given me valuable time to think about how to catch this scoundrel, and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve got a plan!”

Casper, who had been watching Anemonie Blight and her mother, noticed them become distinctly twitchier as the meeting progressed. Anemonie kept rubbing her wrists, and her mother couldn’t stand still.

“It’s a foolproof plan if I may say so myself, both original and unpredictable. It’s taken me nearly all day and three whole pies to think of it, but here it is…” He did a drum roll on Mitch McMassive’s bald head. “You find Le Chat for me!”

“Hurray!” cheered the villagers, applauding their mayor’s genius plan most wholeheartedly.

“Whoever can catch Le Chat and retrieve the sword will be rewarded with…” Mayor Rattsbulge pulled a wad of crumpled banknotes out of his pocket and hastily counted them. “One… two… two… five…” Losing count, he shrugged and shouted, “Twenty-thousand pounds.”

The crowd went, “Ooooooh!”

“And…” The mayor rooted around in another pocket, producing something brown and sticky. “…The rest of this pie.”

The crowd went, “Aaaaaah!”

Sandy Landscape rolled up his sleeves. “Cor, imagine that – twenty grand. I’m gonner gold-plate my wellies.”

“I’m going to gold-plate my house,” said Audrey Snugglepuss.

“I’m going to gold-plate my cats,” said Mrs Trimble.

“’Ere, can I have half o’ that money now if I promise to find the sword?” shouted Sandy.

“No chance.” Audrey yanked him back by his belt loop. “It’s mine.”

“You’ll have to get past me first,” squeaked Mitch McMassive, launching himself at Audrey’s legs and bundling her to the ground, knocking over Clemmie Answorth in the process. Sandy Landscape dived on top, launching punches into the crowd. Then, with a left hook, he felled old Mrs Trimble, who shrieked and dropped her bag of cats. The cats tumbled out into the melee, ripping and nipping with furry fury.

“SILENCE!” bellowed Mayor Rattsbulge.

Cats and villagers alike froze and stared at their mayor. Sandy Landscape let go of Mitch McMassive’s head and put his teeth back in.

“One more thing. There’s a dangerous criminal on the loose, and I don’t want any more of my villagers hurt than is necessary. So I’m imposing a curfew: everybody must stay in their houses after dark. Understood?”

“Yes, Mayor Rattsbulge,” chorused the villagers.

“What about the Summer Ball?” came the shrill tones of Audrey Snugglepuss from somewhere beneath Sandy Landscape’s foot. “That’s tomorrow, and the cake’s all ready.” The Corne-on-the-Kobb Carrot Cake Appreciation Society, of which Audrey was the president, baked a giant cake every year for the occasion. “Will all those carrots have died for nothing, mister mayor?”

Audrey’s question got a roar of agreement from the villagers. The Summer Ball was a much-loved event in Corne-on-the-Kobb – you got free wine and sausage rolls all night, and the best-dressed villager won a pig.

“Of course the ball will still take place.” Mayor Rattsbulge wouldn’t dream of cancelling it, not while there were free sausage rolls and a massive cake, anyway. “But no loitering outside. We’ll lock the doors once you’re all in. Now clear off, and find my sword.”

The crowd cheered as the mayor waddled down from his perch, then they promptly got back to beating chunks out of each other with handbags, wooden legs, or whatever else was to hand.

“Come on, Lamp,” said Casper, just as Mitch McMassive flew straight past them and crashed into a bin. “Let’s go home before things get any uglier.”

As they left the square, Casper could feel the gaze of the little pointy-nosed girl burn the back of his neck. “I don’t trust Anemonie,” he said. “Did you see how shifty she’s acting?”

“Not as shifty as him.” Lamp nodded towards an olive-skinned little man with a black beret, whom Casper swore he’d never noticed before. He sat on a low wooden stool by the steps to the village hall, his pursed white lips sucking on a needle-thin cigarette. He watched the mass brawl with a smirk.

“Who’s that?”

“He looks weird.”

“He looks French, Lamp.”

“Like Le Splat.”

“Yeah, like—” Casper gasped. “Do you think he’s part of it?”

But Lamp wasn’t listening. He was too busy waving through the window at Daisy. She grinned and waved back, giving Lamp a minor heart attack.

Families are odd things. They come in all shapes and sizes, colours and smells. Some families grow on trees, some families come by post and some families arrive off the train with a bulging suitcase and a head full of dreams. The biggest family in the world contains two fathers, three mothers, twelve grandmothers, twenty-six brothers and a poodle. The smallest family in the world is so minute that it can only be seen through a special microscope. The Wriggle family of Essex makes a living by travelling the world and juggling ducks. There is a rumour of a new sort of family that exists only on the Internet, which can be downloaded in bite-size chunks for a weekly fee. All of these are examples of the wonderful, remarkable or downright laughable sorts of families that you can get these days. But none of these even come close to the insanity of the Candlewacks family of Corne-on-the-Kobb.

“I’m home,” called Casper as he slammed the sticky front door behind him.

“Casper, that you? Come on through, supper’s looking delicious!” Casper’s mum’s shout from the kitchen was accompanied by the clattering of knives and a rubbery thud.

On the doormat lay five red letters all with different shouty words on the front like Urgent: Final Payment Request and Fines overdue – we will release the hounds, along with one of those Wanted posters with that picture of Tiddles on it. Casper picked them all up and traipsed down the dark corridor to the back of the house. At the kitchen table sat Casper’s dad, Julius Candlewacks, surrounded by mountains of cookery books and furiously scribbling on a roll of toilet paper. Casper’s mum, Amanda Candlewacks, stood proudly in the middle of the cluttered kitchen floor, her blouse inside out, little pink rollers littering her straggled blonde hair, with a whole raw chicken clutched to her chest like a slippery hot water bottle.

“I’m making chicken!” she announced.

“Oh,” said Casper, worried. “It looks very dirty. What have you been doing with it?”

“I might have dropped it once or twice, but it’s fine. We always clean the floor, right?”

“I’ve never cleaned the floor.”

“It doesn’t matter, Casper. Floor bits are tasty.” Amanda flung open the oven door, threw in the chicken, slammed it shut and grinned. “Simple as that. I’m a natural!”

The door swung back open and broke right off its hinges, tipping the oven forward so that the grubby chicken tumbled out on to the floor and rolled under a cupboard.

“Oh…” muttered Amanda. “Is that meant to happen?”

Casper sighed. “Forget the chicken, Mum. Let’s try beans on toast.”

“Beans on toast! That’s easy.” She perked up at once and bounded back over to the stove, grabbing the nearest saucepan and thumping it down on a ring. Into the pan she threw two slices of stale bread and a tin of baked beans (unopened), then she stepped back with hands on hips, chest puffed up proudly. “There. I’m not completely useless.”

“Um…”

You see, being a mum is a difficult job. It’s much easier, on balance, to sit in front of the telly and munch biscuits. Amanda Candlewacks made this discovery eleven and a half years ago, shortly after the birth of her bubbly blonde-haired son called Casper. She’d only get up from the sofa during advert breaks or weather reports, and that would only be to fetch biscuits, use the toilet or have another baby (which only happened once, and Amanda was furious about it because she missed the latest episode of Granny’s Skin Complaints).

But two months ago the telly broke and, left alone in the house with Cuddles, her screaming baby, Amanda was faced with a problem. You see, televisions have ‘mute’ buttons and you can change the channel when you get bored, but even the most up-to-date babies can’t boast those features. So she was forced to be a mother for the very first time in eleven and a half years. Strangely, she quite liked it. Not so strangely (for someone who’d been sitting in front of a telly for over a decade), she wasn’t very good at it.

“Dad, can’t you help?” pleaded Casper. “You’re a chef, for goodness’ sake.”

Julius didn’t look up from his toilet paper. “Was a chef, Casp. Was.”

“Whatever. Couldn’t you cook our dinner?”

“I’m busy, can’t you see?”

Casper sighed. Two months ago Julius Candlewacks’s restaurant had closed down due to bad press and a small explosion, and suddenly he’d found himself without a job. Never one to give up, he jumped on the next bus to High Kobb, took out every single book from the food section of Kobb Central Library, staggered home and announced to his family, “I’m writing a celebrity cookbook!”

“Which celebrity?” Casper had asked.

“Me, of course. I’ve been a chef for twenty years; now it’s time to pass on my knowledge.”

“What knowledge?” Casper had asked.

But Julius wouldn’t hear a word of it. From that moment on he spent every waking second poring over exotic ingredient lists, copying down useful pages and growing steadily more angry about younger chefs’ successes.

Today was no different. “Look at this potato gratin, Casp, just look at it.” He waggled a loose page from Vinnie’s Veg across the room. “It isn’t even properly seasoned! That’s it. I’m taking this one. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Dad, you can’t just steal other people’s recipes.”

“I’m not! Mine’ll have more seasoning.”

Casper rubbed his eyes. “Never mind. Where’s Cuddles?” Normally he would’ve heard screaming by now, or at least felt that characteristic stabbing pain as his feral baby sister bit him on the ankle.

“She’s hanging on the line,” said Amanda. “I gave her a wash today.”

“Hanging on the…?”

“I couldn’t very well put her in the tumble dryer, could I?” Amanda burst into trills of uproarious laughter.

Eleven and a half straight years of telly would do funny things to anyone, but Casper hoped his mother might have learnt how to be a bit less bonkers by now. This morning he’d caught Amanda drying her hair with a Hoover. Last night she’d plugged a dummy up each of Cuddles’ nostrils. “These things take time,” he told himself.

Casper shoved open the back door and dashed into the garden, where the ten-month-old bundle of teeth and snot called Cuddles Candlewacks bounced up and down inside a pair of Julius’s boxer shorts that were hanging on the washing line. At the sight of Casper she screeched like a wounded eagle and swung her arms about, gnashing at the air with her tiny razor-sharp fangs.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Casper unhooked Cuddles and carried her at arm’s length back to the kitchen.

“There she is!” Amanda grabbed the baby from Casper’s arms and gave her a loving squeeze. “Ooh, ‘WANTED’. What’s this about?” She reached for the poster.

Instantly forgotten, Cuddles slithered gently down her mother’s legs. She landed on all fours and scuttled off under the cupboard to hunt the raw chicken.

“Haven’t you heard?” said Casper. “Someone’s stolen Sir Gossamer D’Glaze’s sword. A jewel thief going by the name of Le Chat.”

“Is this him?” asked Amanda. “Poor feller. He does look so much like a cat.”

Cuddles’ head popped out from under the cupboard. She stared at Amanda with wild eyes.

“What’s she doing?” Casper frowned at his sister, her ears pricked up attentively.

“Oh, it’s her new thing. She saw a cat in the garden and went berserk. Started bonking her head against the windows.”

“TAT!” screeched Cuddles. “TAT!”

“Ooh!” Amanda frowned. “She’s not done that before.”

“She’s saying ‘cat’!” Casper couldn’t believe his ears.

“Don’t be silly,” giggled Amanda. “Babies can’t talk.”

“TATATA! TATATA!”

“No, she is, she definitely is!”

Cuddles scrabbled out from under the cupboard and set off on a circuit of the kitchen, her nose frantically sniffing the air.

“Is it the cat?” Casper waved the poster at Cuddles. “Do you want the cat?”

Cuddles’ whole body tensed. Then she launched at Casper, scaling his trousers, yapping with all her lungs, drool dangling off her sticky chin. She leapt vertically, snatching the poster from Casper’s hands and then dropping to the floor.

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