For Tom Ralis and his class at Cherry Orchard Primary

Mr Gum and the Goblins First published 2007 by Egmont UK Limited This edition published 2019 by Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2007 Andy Stanton

Illustration copyright © 2007 David Tazzyman

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9371 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 5929 3

mrgum.co.uk www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Read all of Andy Stanton’s books!

You’re a Bad Man, MR GUM!

MR GUM and the Biscuit Billionaire

MR GUM and the Goblins

MR GUM and the Power Crystals

MR GUM and the Dancing Bear

What’s for Dinner, MR GUM?

MR GUM and the Cherry Tree

MR GUM and the Secret Hideout

Meet some of the townsfolk of Lamonic Bibber

Contents

Title page

Copyright page

Dedication

1 In the Dead Of Winter

2 Talk of the Devil

3 In the Court of the Goblin King

4 You’re A Bad Man, Mr Launderette!

5 The Meeting at the Stone Table

6 The Great Gifts

7 The Three Impossible Challenges

8 Night on Goblin Mountain

9 Polly and Friday in the Cave

10 The Tunnel Song

11 Heroes in the Snow

12 The Fruit Chew of Babylon

13 The Truth About It All

About the Author

Also By

Praise

Chapter 1
In The Dead Of Winter

IT was the Dead Of Winter and the little town of Lamonic Bibber lay under a blanket of snow and ice. Everywhere you looked, there was snow and ice. On the trees – snow and ice. On the ground – snow and ice. Inside the Museum of Snow and Ice – snow and ice. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember.

Inside the inns and taverns the men folk sat around blazing log fires, drinking their ale and telling stories of never-to-be-forgotten heroes like Whatsisname and That Tall Man In The Shirt Who Killed All Those Dragons. In the houses, mothers put their young ones to bed, soothing them with gentle lullabies about fierce lions and crocodiles. In a little cottage by the meadow, a hobbit sat reading The Lord of the Rings and microwaving his feet to keep warm. ’Twas the Dead Of Winter, all right.

The streets of Lamonic Bibber were quiet at that late hour but presently there came the sound of footsteps as three shadowy figures turned into the high street. And now I will tell you who they were, for I have seen them before – and perhaps you know them too.

The leader was Friday O’Leary, a wise old man who knew the secrets of Time and Space. He carried a lantern which cast a ghostly yellow light on the icy cobblestones. Next came a nine-year-old girl called Polly. She too carried a lantern and it shone brave and true, just like her pure strong heart. And last of all came little Alan Taylor, the Headmaster of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor. He was a gingerbread man with electric muscles and he was only 15.24 centimetres tall. Alan Taylor was far too small to carry a lantern, but he had coated an acorn in glow-in-the-dark paint and that was almost as good.

‘’Tis late, friends,’ whispered Friday O’Leary as the church bells rang for ten o’clock, belting out like absolute marshmallows in the wintry night. ‘We should be getting home, for who knows what strange spirits are about in the Dead Of Winter?’

‘There are no strange spirits, kind Friday,’ chuckled Alan Taylor. ‘Methinks you have been spending too much time in the taverns, listening to the idle tales of drunken fools!’

‘Hey,’ said Polly. ‘Why’s everyone a-talkin’ all funny like in weird old books? We only done came out to gets a takeaway kebab.’

But just then a horrible wailing noise rose on the wind like an out-of-tune opera singer being dragged down a blackboard. Polly and Alan Taylor jumped in fright and Friday did a dozen press-ups in terror.

‘WURP!’ he trembled. ‘What was that?’

‘I gots no idea,’ gulped Polly. ‘But I don’t likes the sound of that sound one little bit.’

‘What if . . .’ squeaked Alan Taylor, bravely weeing himself in fear. ‘What if it’s Mr Gum?’

Now, at the mention of that name they all went very quiet, because there was nothing worse than Mr Gum, not even accidentally falling into a volcano full of history teachers. For Mr Gum and his no-good friend Billy William the Third were the worst criminals Lamonic Bibber had ever seen. And they had done some of the most shocking things of all time, including:

1. Trying to poison a massive whopper of a dog called Jake to death and destruction

2. Trying to steal a billion pounds off poor little Alan Taylor

3. Tons of other stuff I can’t think of at the moment

‘But Alan Taylor, no one’s seen Mr Gum for ages,’ said Polly.

‘Nonetheless, he might have come back,’ replied Friday gravely. ‘For as the famous saying goes – “He might have come back.” Let us investigate!’

And the three friends set off to see what was what, their lanterns swinging hopefully against the darkness. With each step they took the wailing grew louder, until –

‘It’s coming from the alley behind Mrs Lovely’s sweetshop,’ said Friday, and even as he said those words, a hunched-up figure appeared in the narrow passage, staggering towards them with outstretched arms like a mummy. Not the nice type of mummy, obviously. The type with dusty old bandages who’s always chasing you through museums at night because you dug them up out of their pyramid because you were a scientist and that’s what scientists do.

‘But hold on,’ frowned Polly. ‘We haven’t been messin’ around in no pyramids lately. That can’t be a mummy after all. Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s Mrs Lovely! An’ she’s been all duffed up an’ mangled!’

‘NO!’ cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue. ‘NO!’ he cried into the cold, cold night. ‘NOOOO!’

Chapter 2
Talk of the Devil

But alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and she collapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.

‘What happened to thee?’ Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?’

‘Save your questions, Friday,’ advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.’

So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:

Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.

‘DEMONS!’ cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘’Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!’

‘You’re right, Jack!’ shrieked another. ‘’Tis demons for sure!’

And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.

‘Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘We’re not demons.’

‘Not even slightly?’ asked one of the men folk anxiously.

‘No,’ said Polly firmly. ‘You lot’s drunk too much beer an’ it’s turned your brains all fuzzy an’ full of bad ’maginations. Now go home, men folk, an’ get some sleep. An’ don’t blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘OK, nine-year-old girl,’ said the men folk, ‘you’re the boss, for some reason.’ And off home they went.

‘I do apologise about all that demon talk,’ said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs. ‘But though they were drunk, the men folk were right to be afraid. You never know WHO’s going to come through the door in this terrible season, when spirits and ghouls are at large. Why, only last week an evil skeleton came in and did a poo on the carpet. How I hate the Dead Of Winter!’ he exclaimed. And the Innkeeper showed the heroes to a cosy little bedroom with wooden floorboards, bowed once and disappeared back downstairs.

With great care, Friday dumped Mrs Lovely down on the little bed. Polly fetched a flannel and gently she scrubbed the slime from Mrs Lovely’s goodly face. And Alan Taylor hopped up on to her chin and gently he flossed her goodly teeth.

‘I shall take first watch,’ said Friday, pulling up a chair. ‘If she wakes I will wake you too. But until then, she must not be disturbed. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he sometimes liked to do.

At once Mrs Lovely’s eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright in bed like a startled panda caught shoplifting bamboo.

‘Whaa? Eh? Boing?!’ she gabbled, looking around in confusion. ‘Where am I?’

‘Fear not, Mrs L,’ exclaimed Friday, ‘For ’tis I, your beloved husband, me.’

‘Oh, hello, Friday,’ said Mrs Lovely weakly. ‘What’s going on?’

But suddenly she caught her breath and drew the bedcover to her cheek in terror.

‘Goblin Mountain!’ she murmured in the flickering candlelight. ‘Now I remember!’

‘Tell us your tale, dearest wife-face,’ said Friday, tenderly clasping her nose to his. ‘But will you do it as a song?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Now is not the time for songs, my love,’ replied Mrs Lovely. ‘Besides, I’m all weak and feeble. I’m just going to say it normally.’

‘Bah,’ sulked Friday – but Mrs Lovely was determined to tell her tale her own way.

‘It was like this,’ she began. ‘You know how I’m always after unusual herbs to make my sweets? Well, the best ones grow up on Goblin Mountain. So, early this morning, up I did climb to get at those herbs. But soon a blizzard whipped up. I couldn’t see a thing – and then, suddenly, I found myself under attack from creatures unknown! They bit and scratched and I thought I was doomed, but somehow I fought my way loose and escaped. After that I don’t remember anything and now here I am safe and sound, hooray.’

‘What do you thinks them creatures was?’ asked Polly.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Lovely. ‘That’s why they were creatures unknown. But like I say, it happened on Goblin Mountain, just outside the Goblin Cave, where the Goblin River runs swift and blue.’

‘Hmm,’ said Friday thoughtfully, twirling his famous imaginary detective’s moustache . . . ‘Goblin Mountain . . . Goblin Cave . . . Hmm . . . Goblins . . . Goblins . . . It all points to one thing. Mrs Lovely,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘it was badgers who attacked you. A gang of wild badgers driven mad by the cold winter and too much sugar!’

‘We’ll gets ’em!’ cried Polly, sticking her head out of the window towards Goblin Mountain. ‘Oi! Badgers!’ she shouted, just in case they could hear over long distances like whales or telephones. ‘You gone too far this time, you stripy rascals! We gonna come an’ sort you out!’

During all this Alan Taylor had been sitting in an ashtray on the bedside table, listening carefully. And now it was his turn to speak. For he knew all about the natural world, and that was why he was the headmaster of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor.

‘I don’t think it was badgers,’ he said. ‘You see, badgers mainly come out at night and Mrs Lovely was attacked by day. Also, badgers tend to attack small mammals such as stoats, voles and marmots (a type of large ground squirrel). They hardly ever attack Mrs Lovely. You know what I think it was?’

‘Badgers?’ asked Friday, who hadn’t really been listening properly.

‘No,’ said Alan Taylor, ‘I think it was goblins.’

‘Goblins?!’ whispered Polly in fright.

‘Goblins?!’ moaned Mrs Lovely fearfully.

‘Goblins,’ nodded Alan Taylor gravely, and the moon slid out from behind a cloud and its light spilled into the room like a long skeletal finger. And from up high on Goblin Mountain, they seemed to hear horrible laughter, it was probably just their imagination but it gave ’em goosebumps all the same.

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