on,’ Mrs Stinkthrottle said when she’d finished the chocolate bar, ‘it’s time for lunch. Let’s get you in the kitchen and show you what’s what. What can you cook, little boy?’
Fizz couldn’t cook anything, but he kept quiet and just did as he was told.
He followed the filthy Mrs Stinkthrottle’s pointing finger to another door which led to the kitchen. After having seen the front room and the hall, he absolutely dreaded what the kitchen would be like.
And that’s where we’ll leave him for the moment. Let’s have a little pause to think about what’s happened. Go refresh your glass, have a sandwich or something. And then, whenever you’re ready (that’s the beauty of a book, it will wait for you for as long as you like), come back for Chapter Seven, which begins just over the page.
Chapter Seven
in which another boy is met and in which baked beans are cooked
When Fizz opened the kitchen door, the sight that bumped its way into his eyeballs was pretty much what he expected. The place was a mess and it smelt, though perhaps not quite as badly as the front room had, because one of the plates of glass on the back door was broken (a small square one, high up) and a tiny bit of fresh air made its way in (before promptly turning round again and going out when it met the much tougher, bullying, hard-to-get-on-with air inside).
Old Mrs Stinkthrottle gave him a sharp nasty shove from behind and he tumbled forward, landing face first on the linoleum. (Well, Fizz assumed there was lino there somewhere, underneath the food cartons, eggshells, chip grease, crushed crisps, fluff and dust, even though he couldn’t see it.)
‘Make us some lunch you two, we’re hungry,’ she snapped.
Then she shut the door leaving Fizz on his own.
Well, not quite on his own. As anyone who is paying attention to the details will have noticed, Mrs Stinkthrottle’s not-so-polite request for lunch had been addressed to two people, but Fizz wasn’t paying as much attention as you and me.
Once Fizz had picked himself up off the floor (wiping dried bits of vegetable and gravy and cat food, biscuit wrappers, egg and a mysterious sweet-smelling purple slime off of himself as best as he could) he tried the back door, but it was locked. It was only after he did this that he noticed another boy in the room. He was stood next to the sink.
This boy, who was about his own age, was looking at Fizz with big round eyes from underneath a slab of blond hair. He was dressed in a grubby school uniform and held a washing up brush in one hand and a clean plate in the other.
‘I was just doing the washing up,’ he said in a tiny voice.
‘Who are you?’ Fizz asked, in a matching whisper.
‘I’m Kevin,’ Kevin said.
‘I’m Fizz,’ said Fizz, holding his hand out. (He was too distracted right then to remember to be worried about telling this boy his real name.)
‘That’s cool,’ said Kevin taking Fizz’s hand and shaking it nervously. ‘I’ve never met anyone called Fizz before.’
‘Well,’ said Fizz, ‘I’ve never met anyone called Kevin.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. You’re my first ever Kevin. I like it. It sounds exotic.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Wow. At school I get picked on for being called Kevin. The other kids say it’s a rubbish name.’
‘Yeah, well, I like it,’ Fizz said, and went on, ‘But what are you doing here? How long have you been here? What happened? What are they going to do to us?’
Kevin explained that he’d been in the supermarket the day before, after school (he went past it on his way home and his mum had asked him to pick up some milk). Mrs Stinkthrottle had spotted him and asked him for help carrying her bags. He didn’t know she’d want them carried all the way home, or that she’d then ask him to take them into the kitchen and unpack them.
When he’d got there she’d locked the doors and told him to start cleaning the place.
‘Why did she
Fizz couldn’t cook anything, but he kept quiet and just did as he was told.
He followed the filthy Mrs Stinkthrottle’s pointing finger to another door which led to the kitchen. After having seen the front room and the hall, he absolutely dreaded what the kitchen would be like.
And that’s where we’ll leave him for the moment. Let’s have a little pause to think about what’s happened. Go refresh your glass, have a sandwich or something. And then, whenever you’re ready (that’s the beauty of a book, it will wait for you for as long as you like), come back for Chapter Seven, which begins just over the page.
Chapter Seven
in which another boy is met and in which baked beans are cooked
When Fizz opened the kitchen door, the sight that bumped its way into his eyeballs was pretty much what he expected. The place was a mess and it smelt, though perhaps not quite as badly as the front room had, because one of the plates of glass on the back door was broken (a small square one, high up) and a tiny bit of fresh air made its way in (before promptly turning round again and going out when it met the much tougher, bullying, hard-to-get-on-with air inside).
Old Mrs Stinkthrottle gave him a sharp nasty shove from behind and he tumbled forward, landing face first on the linoleum. (Well, Fizz assumed there was lino there somewhere, underneath the food cartons, eggshells, chip grease, crushed crisps, fluff and dust, even though he couldn’t see it.)
‘Make us some lunch you two, we’re hungry,’ she snapped.
Then she shut the door leaving Fizz on his own.
Well, not quite on his own. As anyone who is paying attention to the details will have noticed, Mrs Stinkthrottle’s not-so-polite request for lunch had been addressed to two people, but Fizz wasn’t paying as much attention as you and me.
Once Fizz had picked himself up off the floor (wiping dried bits of vegetable and gravy and cat food, biscuit wrappers, egg and a mysterious sweet-smelling purple slime off of himself as best as he could) he tried the back door, but it was locked. It was only after he did this that he noticed another boy in the room. He was stood next to the sink.
This boy, who was about his own age, was looking at Fizz with big round eyes from underneath a slab of blond hair. He was dressed in a grubby school uniform and held a washing up brush in one hand and a clean plate in the other.
‘I was just doing the washing up,’ he said in a tiny voice.
‘Who are you?’ Fizz asked, in a matching whisper.
‘I’m Kevin,’ Kevin said.
‘I’m Fizz,’ said Fizz, holding his hand out. (He was too distracted right then to remember to be worried about telling this boy his real name.)
‘That’s cool,’ said Kevin taking Fizz’s hand and shaking it nervously. ‘I’ve never met anyone called Fizz before.’
‘Well,’ said Fizz, ‘I’ve never met anyone called Kevin.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. You’re my first ever Kevin. I like it. It sounds exotic.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Wow. At school I get picked on for being called Kevin. The other kids say it’s a rubbish name.’
‘Yeah, well, I like it,’ Fizz said, and went on, ‘But what are you doing here? How long have you been here? What happened? What are they going to do to us?’
Kevin explained that he’d been in the supermarket the day before, after school (he went past it on his way home and his mum had asked him to pick up some milk). Mrs Stinkthrottle had spotted him and asked him for help carrying her bags. He didn’t know she’d want them carried all the way home, or that she’d then ask him to take them into the kitchen and unpack them.
When he’d got there she’d locked the doors and told him to start cleaning the place.
‘Why did she
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