Demon Dentist

Dedication

Thank yous:

A few very impootment* thankingyous*.

Firstness*, the greatportant* Tony Ross, for once again bringing my words to life with your fantmazingillicous* illustrawings*.

Thankingyou* too to the head of children’s books at HarperCollins, Ann-Janine Murtagh, for all your beliefmentness* in me and my boovels*.

The editor Ruth Alltimes must be thankinged *

too for her meticuliffilous* editnessment*.

Kate Clarke and Elorine Grant, thankingyou both for your incrediment* cover and text designyness*.

The publicimitiousness* for this boovel* was organmented* by Sam White and Geraldine Stroud, thankingyou* ladymen*.

Thankingyou* too to the desk editor Lily Morgan.

Finallingness*, a hugalumptious* thankingyou * to my agent Paul Stevens at Independent. You are the bestmentiousness*.

Prologue

Darkness had come to the town. Strange things were happening in the dead of night. Children would put a tooth under their pillow at bedtime, excitedly waiting for the tooth fairy to leave a coin. In the morning they would wake up to find something unspeakable under there. A dead slug. A live spider. Hundreds and hundreds of earwigs creeping and crawling beneath their pillow. Or worse. Much worse…

Someone or something had come into their bedrooms in the hours of darkness, snatched the tooth and left a blood-curdling calling card behind.

Evil was at work.

But who or what was behind it?

How could they sneak into children’s bedrooms without being seen?

And what could they possibly want with all those teeth…?

Meet the characters in this story:

Alfie, a boy with rotten teeth

Dad, Alfie’s dad

Gabz, a little girl

Miss Root, a dentist

Fang, her cat

Miss Hare, a Science teacher

Winnie, a social worker

Raj, a newsagent

PC Plank, a policeman

Texting Boy, a boy who never stops texting

Mr Grey, a headmaster

Mr Snood, a Drama teacher

Mrs Morrissey, an old lady

1

A Simple Case of Toothache

Alfie hated going to the dentist. As a result the boy’s teeth were almost all yellow. The ones that weren’t yellow were brown. They bore the stains of all the goodies that children love, but dentists hate. Sweets, fizzy drinks, chocolate. The teeth that were neither yellow nor brown simply weren’t there any more. They had fallen out. One had bitten into a toffee and stayed there. Assorted fruit-flavoured chews had claimed others. This is what young Alfie looked like when he smiled…

That’s because this twelve-year-old boy hadn’t gone to the dentist since he was very little.

Alfie’s last visit was when he was around six. It was a simple case of toothache, but it ended in disaster. The dentist was an ancient man, Mr Erstwhile. Despite his good intentions, Mr Erstwhile should have retired many years before. The dentist looked like a tortoise, an old tortoise at that. He wore glasses so thick they made his eyes appear to be the size of tennis balls. Mr Erstwhile told Alfie the tooth in question was rotten, a filling wouldn’t save it and unfortunately he had no option but to take it out.

The dentist yanked and yanked and yanked with his huge steel forceps. But the tooth wouldn’t come. Mr Erstwhile even rested his foot up on the chair by Alfie’s head to lever himself against it to help wrench the wretched tooth out. Still it wouldn’t come.

The ancient dentist then enlisted the help of his even older dental nurse. Miss Prig was instructed to hold on to him and tug as hard as she could. Even then the tooth wouldn’t come.

Soon the hefty receptionist, Miss Veal, was asked to step into the room to help. Miss Veal weighed more than Mr Erstwhile and Miss Prig put together. But even with all her ballast, the tooth wouldn’t come.

Just then the dentist had an idea, and ordered Miss Prig to fetch some particularly thick dental floss. He carefully tied the floss around the forceps, and then looped it around Miss Veal’s ample frame. The dentist then instructed his rotund receptionist to leap out of the window on the count of three. But even with all of Miss Veal’s immense weight yanking on the boy’s tooth, it still wouldn’t come.

With poor young Alfie still lying in terror on the dentist’s chair, Mr Erstwhile stepped into his waiting room to request reinforcements. The growing crowd of patients waiting to be seen were all called upon to assist. Young and old, fat and thin, the elderly dentist needed all the help he could get.

Nevertheless, even with a lengthy human chain and an army of yankers*, the tooth stayed well and truly put.

By this time poor little Alfie was in great distress. The pain of having his tooth pulled out was a hundred times worse than the toothache. However, Mr Erstwhile was determined to finish what he had started. Sweating profusely, the thirsty dentist took a large swig of mouthwash, and gripped on to the forceps as tightly as he could.

Finally, after what seemed like days, weeks, even months of yanking, Alfie heard a deafening…

The dentist had gripped so hard he had crushed the tooth. It exploded into thousands of tiny fragments inside Alfie’s mouth.

With the ordeal finally over, Mr Erstwhile and all his helpers were lying in a tangled heap on the surgery floor.

“Well done, everyone!” he announced, as his assistant Miss Prig helped him to his feet. “Oh, that tooth was a stubborn little blighter!”

Just then Alfie realised something. He still had toothache.

The dentist had taken out the wrong tooth!

2

Believe

Alfie ran out of the dental surgery as fast as his little legs would carry him. That fateful afternoon the boy vowed that he would never ever go to the dentist’s again. To this day he never had. Appointments had come and appointments had gone. Alfie had missed every single one. Over the years there had been a sackful of reminder letters from the dentist, but Alfie had hidden them all from his dad.

Alfie’s was a family of two. Just him and his father. The boy’s mother had died giving birth to him. He had never known her. Sometimes he felt sad, as if he missed his mother, but then he would tell himself, how could he miss someone he had never met?

To hide the appointment letters from the dentist, the boy would silently drag a stool across the kitchen floor. Alfie was short for his age. He was, in fact, the second shortest kid at his school. So he would have to balance on his tiptoes on the stool to reach the top of the larder where he would hide the letters. There must have been a hundred letters buried up there by now, and Alfie knew his father couldn’t reach them. That’s because for many years Dad had been unwell, and had of late become confined to a wheelchair.

Before ill health forced him out of work, Dad was a coal miner. A great big bear of a man, he had loved working down the pit and providing for his beloved son. However, all those years he spent down the mine took a terrible toll on his lungs. Dad was a proud man, and didn’t let on about his illness for many years. He worked harder and harder to dig more and more coal, even taking on extra shifts to help make ends meet. Meanwhile his breathing became shallower and shallower, until one afternoon he collapsed at the coalface. When Dad finally came round at the hospital the doctors told him he could never go down a mine again. Just one more lungful of coal dust could finish him off for good. As the years passed Dad’s breathing worsened. Getting another job became impossible, and even everyday tasks, something as simple as tying a shoelace, grew to be a struggle. Soon Dad could only get around in a wheelchair.

With no mum or brothers or sisters, Alfie had to care for his father alone. Besides having to go to school and do his homework, the boy would do all the shopping, all the cleaning, cook all the meals, and do all the washing up. Alfie never complained though. He loved his dad with all his heart.

Dad’s body may have been broken, but his spirit wasn’t. He had a great gift for telling stories. “Listen, pup…” he would begin.

Dad would often call his son that, which Alfie loved. The image it conjured up of a big soppy dog and a little puppy snuggling up together always made the boy feel safe and warm inside.

“Listen, pup…” Dad would say. “All you have to do is close your eyes, and believe…”

From their little bungalow Dad would take his son on all sorts of thrilling adventures. They would ride on magic carpets, dive under the oceans, even drive stakes through the hearts of vampires.

It was a multicoloured world of make-believe, a million miles away from their black-and-white existence.

“Take me to the haunted house again, Daddy!” the boy would beg.

“Perhaps today, my pup, we will take a journey to the old haunted castle…!” Dad would tease.

“Please, please, please…” Alfie would say. Father and son would close their eyes and meet in their daydreams. Together they:

• Went out fishing for the day in Scotland and caught the Loch Ness Monster.

• Climbed the Himalayan Mountains and came face to face with the Abominable Snowman.

• Slew a huge fire-breathing dragon.

• Hid aboard a pirate ship and were forced to walk the plank as stowaways, only to be saved by beautiful mermaids.

• Rubbed a magic lamp and met a genie who gave them three wishes each, although Dad gave all his wishes to his son.

• Rode on the back of Pegasus, the winged horse from Greek mythology.

• Climbed up a stalk to Giant Land and met an extremely hungry Cyclops whose perfect idea of a between-meals snack was a scrawny little twelve-year-old boy, so Dad had to save him.

• Became the first ever father and son team to successfully land on the moon in a home-made rocket.

• Were chased across the misty moors at night by a ferocious werewolf.

This was the world of the imagination. Anything was possible in Dad’s and Alfie’s adventures. Nothing could stop them. Nothing.

As Alfie grew older though, he found it harder and harder to see these things. As his dad spoke, the boy would open his eyes, become distracted, and begin to wish he could play computer games all night like the other kids at his new big school.

“Pup, just close your eyes and believe…” his dad would say. However, Alfie was beginning to think that now he was twelve, nearly thirteen, he was too old to believe in magic and myths and fantastical creatures.

He was about to find out how terribly wrong he was.

3

Whiter than White

The whole of the lower school was gathered in the hall. The few hundred children were sitting in rows of chairs awaiting the guest speaker. No one interesting ever visited Alfie’s school. On Prize-giving Day the guest of honour had been a man who made the cardboard for cornflake packets. The cornflake-cardboard man’s speech was so mind-numbingly boring, even he fell asleep delivering it.

Today there was a talk from the town’s new dentist. It was to be a lecture about looking after your teeth. Not wildly exciting, but at least it meant they were all out of lessons for a while, thought Alfie. Not liking dentists, Alfie sat himself right in the back row, in his bedraggled school uniform. His shirt was once white but had long since gone grey. His jumper was full of holes. His blazer was torn in several places. His trousers were too short for him. Nevertheless, Alfie’s father had taught him to wear his uniform with pride; the boy’s frayed tie was always knotted absolutely perfectly.

Slumped next to Alfie was the only kid in the school shorter than him. A very little girl called Gabz. Seemingly shy, no one had heard her speak, despite her having been at the school now for a whole term. Most of the time Gabz hid behind her curtain of dreadlocks, not making eye contact with anyone.

When all the kids had finally stopped monkeying around and sat down, the headmaster took to the stage. If there was ever a competition to find the man most completely unsuited to being a headmaster, Mr Grey would win first prize. Children scared him, teachers scared him, even his own reflection scared him. If his job didn’t suit Mr Grey, his surname definitely did. His shoes, his socks, his trousers, his belt, his shirt, his tie, his jacket, his hair, even his eyes were all shades of grey.

Mr Grey had the whole grey colour spectrum covered:

“C-c-c-come on now, settle d-d-d-down…”

Mr Grey stammered when he was nervous. Nothing made him more nervous than having to speak in front of the whole school. Legend had it that one day the school inspectors visited and they actually found him hiding under his desk pretending to be a footstool.

“I s-s-said, s-s-s-settle d-d-d-d-d-d-own…”

If anything, the hum of the kids became louder. Just then Gabz stood on her chair and shouted at the top of her voice…

It might not have been the most flattering choice of words, but the headmaster allowed himself a brief flicker of a smile as all the kids at last fell silent. Everyone looked at Gabz as she sat back down. After her outburst, the girl was now surrounded by the strange glow of celebrity.

“Good…” continued Mr Grey, in his grey monotonous voice. “A bit less of the old though, thank you, Gabriella. Now as a special treat for you, with a talk about looking after your teeth, here is the town’s new dentist. P-p-please give a huge school welcome to the lovely Miss R-R-Root…”

As the headmaster scuttled off, there was a short burst of applause. Soon this was drowned out by a discordant squeaking sound from the very back of the hall. One by one the kids turned around. A lady was pushing a shiny metal trolley down through the parted sea of chairs. One of the wheels was catching on the wooden floor, and the high-pitched squeal was so brain-aching, some of the children even put their fingers in their ears. The sound was like someone scratching their fingernails down a blackboard.

The first thing you noticed about Miss Root was her teeth. She had the most dazzling white smile. Whiter than white. Like a fluorescent light. Her teeth were absolutely flawless. So flawless they couldn’t possibly be real. The second thing you noticed about Miss Root was that she was impossibly tall. Her legs were so long and thin, it was like watching someone walk on stilts. She was dressed in a white laboratory coat, like the one a Science teacher wears when it’s time for an experiment. Underneath the coat, her white blouse was matched by a long white flowing skirt. As she passed, Alfie looked down and noticed a large splash of red on the toe of one of her shiny white high-heeled shoes.

Is it blood? thought Alfie.

Miss Root’s hair was white-blonde, and arranged in a perfectly lacquered ‘do’, usually only spotted on the heads of Queens or Prime Ministers. The ‘do’ was shaped much like a Mr Whippy ice cream, minus the flake, of course.

In a certain light she looked very old. Her features were narrow and pointy, and her skin pale as snow. However, the dentist had painstakingly painted on so much make-up that it was impossible to tell how old she really was.

50?

90?

900?

Finally Miss Root reached the front of the hall. She turned around, and smiled. The low winter sun shone through the high windows and bounced off her teeth, causing the front few rows to cover their eyes.

“Good morning, children…!” she said brightly. The dentist spoke in a singsong manner, as if she were recounting a nursery rhyme. There was a collective groan from the kids at being spoken to as if they were toddlers.

“I said, good morning, children…” repeated the dentist, and she fixed them all with a powerful stare. So powerful that soon a hush descended upon the room. Then in unison all the assembled pupils said:

“Good morning.”

“Let me introduce myself. I am your new dentist. My name is Miss Root, but I ask all my little patients like you to call me ‘Mummy’.”

Alfie and Gabz shared a look of disbelief.

“So can I hear a great big ‘Hello, Mummy’? After three! One, two, three…”

Miss Root mouthed the words silently as the children joined in.

“Hello, Mummy,” they murmured.

“Excellent! Now I came to this town when a very unfortunate, indeed fatal, accident befell Mr Erstwhile. The poor wretch must have fallen on to one of his own dental instruments. Oh, the irony! Of course there’s no need to go into all the gory details, but suffice it to say, Mr Erstwhile was found lying on the floor of his surgery in a huge pool of blood. The dental probe was embedded deep in his heart…”

A deafening silence descended on the hall. Alfie gulped. It was a horrifying image. Mr Erstwhile may have been old and doddery, but could he really have accidentally stabbed himself in the heart?

“Mummy would like you all to give one minute’s silence for Mr Erstwhile. Now close your eyes, children. All of you. No peeping!”

Alfie didn’t trust Miss Root enough to close his eyes. Nor did Gabz. Both screwed up their faces and squinted. From out of the tiny slits in his eyelids, Alfie spied something very strange. Instead of standing at the front with her own eyes closed, Miss Root tiptoed around the room inspecting all the children’s teeth. When she finally reached Alfie’s row at the back, the boy squeezed his eyes tightly shut for fear of getting into trouble. Miss Root must have lingered looking at his rotten set, as the boy could feel her cold breath on his face for a while before she tiptoed back to the front of the hall.

“And that’s one minute!” the dentist announced. “Thank you, children, you can open your eyes…”

Alfie and Gabz looked at each other again. They were the only two kids who had witnessed Miss Root’s peculiar behaviour…

4

Blacker than Black

“Of course, Mr Erstwhile will be sadly missed,” concluded Miss Root. “But as your new dentist I asked your wonderful headmaster if I could come here today. Mummy wanted to give you all a chance to get to know me, so I can welcome each and every one of you personally to my surgery. Now I am going to begin today’s little talk with an incy-wincy question. Children, how many of you hate going to the dentist?”

All but one kid put their hand up. No one actually enjoyed going to the dentist. At best it was tolerated. The one boy who didn’t put his hand up was too busy texting.

Alfie reached his hand in the air as high as he could.

“Oh! So many hands. Ha ha!” she laughed, though not in a way that suggested she found it funny. “So how many of you REALLY REALLY REALLY hate going to the dentist…?” incanted Miss Root in that singsong voice of hers.

Most of the hands stayed up, and Alfie actually rose out of his chair so his hand would be the highest. This boy was the king of really really really hating going to the dentist. After he had the wrong tooth pulled out, no one in the known universe hated going to the dentist more than Alfie.

“Ho ho ho!” said the dentist.

“Who on earth says ‘Ho ho ho’?” whispered Alfie to Gabz.

“So lame!” replied the little girl.

“Well, Mummy is here today to tell you there is absolutely nothing to be scared of…” The words danced in the air as she spoke. If her tone of voice was meant to sound reassuring, it didn’t. It sounded the opposite of reassuring. It was in fact decidedly unnonreassuring*.

“Now I need a volunteer, hands up…!” said the dentist.

All those little hands that had been up were now well and truly down. To avoid any confusion, Alfie shot his hands down to his feet. Any lower and they would be underground. He wanted there to be a less than zero chance that he would be picked.

“Nobody…?” asked Miss Root.

Even the swots and show-offs kept deadly silent.

“Come on, children, I don’t bite!” The dentist smiled and flashed her blindingly white teeth.

“Who hasn’t been to the dentist for a very very long time…?” she purred.

The pupils started whispering to each other and looking around. Soon hundreds of pairs of eyes were glaring at Alfie. Everyone at school had at some point noticed his teeth. They were so bad, they might as well have been a tourist attraction. They could even have their own café and gift shop.

The dentist followed the children’s gaze and fixed her eyes on Alfie.

“Oh yes, I thought it might be you…” Miss Root’s long, thin, gnarled finger pointed straight at him. “You, boy. Come to Mummy…”