The Caravan at the Edge of Doom

‘Hi, Bess,’ I mumbled.

‘How’s your half-term?’ Bess asked. ‘Hey, wait up! I’ll come out!’

‘All right,’ I said, edging away, slowly, sort of half waiting, but still on my way to the shop.

Bess came bounding through the pub door and bounced up to me. ‘Hey, Harley! What you up to today? Wanna go Splash Madness?’

I froze, trapped by her friendliness.

‘Sorry, I … milk.’ I shrugged. ‘Bye!’

I ran across the road, escaping into Meg’s Mini Mart. Inside, I ducked along the toothpaste and bleach aisle, and peeped over a toilet-roll display. Through the window, I could see her. Sitting on a bench outside the pub, swinging her legs. Smiling. Waiting.

Bess had moved to Kesmitherly a week earlier when her mums took over the Ragged Goose. She’d joined my class on the last day of term, and she’d been friendly ever since.

It was a nightmare.

In fairness, it wasn’t entirely Bess’s fault; she couldn’t help being friendly. But I really couldn’t risk getting caught up in all that friendship madness again. Not after Olly.

I peeped over the toilet rolls at Bess, still sitting, still waiting. It felt a bit mean, hiding from her. Maybe I should go over …?

I began to stand, then ducked down again.

Life was safer without friends. Recently, I’d been spending a lot of time helping my parents with chores and DIY – mainly to try and get back into their Good Books after all the Bad Times when Olly had been around. It was boring, but at least it was safe. The worse that can happen with DIY is you accidentally saw your leg off or nail your arm to a wall or electrocute yourself. Much less risky than friendship.

But as I looked over at Bess, casually throwing gravel into a hanging basket, I wondered … Maybe an un-imaginary friend might be okay? It would certainly be good to have someone to talk to about all the exploding-magic-toilet stuff. Maybe I should go to –

Wait a minute – where had she invited me? Did she say Splash Madness? SPLASH MADNESS!? What kind of person would invite anyone to Splash Madness? Was she mad? Was she joking? Had she even seen last month’s report in the Risborough Gazette?

Supposedly, they’d fixed it since then – but they would say that, wouldn’t they? And anyway, even if they had fixed it, anyone with any sense could’ve seen this was an accident waiting to happen. The trouble with flumes is you’ve got no control. Once you’re on, you just hurtle down and down and round and round, pointlessly, until you reach the end – and pray you’ve still got all your thumbs. I had nothing against water danger where you were in control, like when Miss Delaporte told us to jump in the deep end in our pyjamas to rescue a plastic brick. That was a risk worth taking. A sensible risk.

But random, unnecessary danger, where you just let go …

That was just silly.

Eventually, Bess’s mum called her from an upstairs window, and Bess went back inside. I quickly bought the milk. On my receipt it said the time was 07:52, which was ridiculous. Because if it really was 07:52 …

I’d been hiding for twenty minutes!

I ran out of the shop, past the Ragged Goose, down the lane, over the moor, and into the caravan on the edge of Kesmitherly.

On the table was a note.

The toilet door was swinging in the breeze. Green smoke snaked out of the skylight.

Nana was gone.

But there wasn’t time to be sad. Not yet. Before I could grieve for any of my grandparents, I had a problem to deal with.

Because Nana’s wheelie bag was gone too. And Malcolm was nowhere to be seen.

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