When he’d first been stuck in there, at lunchtime, he’d tried the handle and knew the door was locked. But he’d also noticed that one of the panes of glass, right up at the top of the door, was broken (you can check in Chapter Seven if you don’t remember).
In one quick move Fizz threw the watch through that little hole in the glass and jumped to the side.
Mr Stinkthrottle wailed, ‘My watch!’ and lunged at the door.
The old man rattled at the door handle, just as Fizz had when he’d first tried it. Of course it wouldn’t open, but Mr Stinkthrottle stuck his hand down into his trouser pocket and began rummaging. He pulled out a stiff green hanky, and some boiled sweets fell to the floor along with some loose change and a harmonica, but suddenly there in his hand was a key.
He was so angry about his watch, this watch he’d lost and which he’d found again (in the hands of a little thief), that the thought of losing it yet again, so soon, was making his whole body shake. It took him a few tries to get the key in the keyhole, but much to Fizz’s relief he did, and he promptly turned it and opened the door.
‘My watch! There you are, I see you,’ Mr Stinkthrottle said as he sank to his knees in the garden. He picked it up and held it to his cheek. ‘Oh!’
The two boys didn’t hang around. They were out the back door like fish down a waterfall.
The first thing either of them did was breathe deep of the fresh(ish) air. (The plants nearest the back door were already beginning to droop as the rotten fish and damp mould smell slumped out of the kitchen.)
The second thing they did was look round the garden to see where they could go next.
The garden was a jungle, full of brambles and stinging nettles and unexpectedly bright wild flowers. Things scuttled away in the undergrowth, rustling and squeaking. The garden was surrounded by brick walls, blocking off views of the neighbours’ gardens, and the only likely path of escape was down a passage to the side of the house, which hopefully (the boys crossed their fingers) led back out to the road. They had to crawl through a few clinging, grasping bramble branches to get there, and climb over some ancient overloaded rusty dustbins in the alley, but they were so determined to escape that a few scratches and torn clothes weren’t going to hold them back.
‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Mrs Stinkthrottle, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Where are you going? What are you doing? You boys! Stop!’
She’d come downstairs and found everything changed: the telly off, her husband vanished. She shouted at the boys and shouted at Mr Stinkthrottle in the same breath, ‘You stop! Come back here. And you, get up, you’re just embarrassing yourself, you silly old fool!’
When she saw the boys scrabbling into the alleyway, she went back through the house moving faster than anyone would expect, and by the time they emerged from the passage out into the street she had pulled open the front door.
‘Stop! Stop!’ she shouted, hobbling up the front path like a bent little old lady once again.
The boys were out on the pavement and suddenly Fizz realised he had absolutely no idea where he was.
‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked Kevin.
Kevin shook his head.
‘Just run!’ they urged each other in the same breath.
As they ran off up the road Mrs Stinkthrottle reached the pavement. She was shouting, ‘Stop! Thieves! Burglars! Help! They’ve stolen my things! My handbag, my money, my pearls! Stop them!’ (More Stinkthrottle lies. Grrr.)
That was when Fizz’s luck ran out. On the other side of the road a couple of burly young men were just packing up for the day after having built a wall in a neighbour’s front garden. Hearing an old lady in distress, and seeing a couple of scruffy kids running away, they dropped their tools and started chasing the boys. ‘Oi, you! You’d better stop! Come back here!’
What would you have done if you’d been them? I mean,
In one quick move Fizz threw the watch through that little hole in the glass and jumped to the side.
Mr Stinkthrottle wailed, ‘My watch!’ and lunged at the door.
The old man rattled at the door handle, just as Fizz had when he’d first tried it. Of course it wouldn’t open, but Mr Stinkthrottle stuck his hand down into his trouser pocket and began rummaging. He pulled out a stiff green hanky, and some boiled sweets fell to the floor along with some loose change and a harmonica, but suddenly there in his hand was a key.
He was so angry about his watch, this watch he’d lost and which he’d found again (in the hands of a little thief), that the thought of losing it yet again, so soon, was making his whole body shake. It took him a few tries to get the key in the keyhole, but much to Fizz’s relief he did, and he promptly turned it and opened the door.
‘My watch! There you are, I see you,’ Mr Stinkthrottle said as he sank to his knees in the garden. He picked it up and held it to his cheek. ‘Oh!’
The two boys didn’t hang around. They were out the back door like fish down a waterfall.
The first thing either of them did was breathe deep of the fresh(ish) air. (The plants nearest the back door were already beginning to droop as the rotten fish and damp mould smell slumped out of the kitchen.)
The second thing they did was look round the garden to see where they could go next.
The garden was a jungle, full of brambles and stinging nettles and unexpectedly bright wild flowers. Things scuttled away in the undergrowth, rustling and squeaking. The garden was surrounded by brick walls, blocking off views of the neighbours’ gardens, and the only likely path of escape was down a passage to the side of the house, which hopefully (the boys crossed their fingers) led back out to the road. They had to crawl through a few clinging, grasping bramble branches to get there, and climb over some ancient overloaded rusty dustbins in the alley, but they were so determined to escape that a few scratches and torn clothes weren’t going to hold them back.
‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Mrs Stinkthrottle, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Where are you going? What are you doing? You boys! Stop!’
She’d come downstairs and found everything changed: the telly off, her husband vanished. She shouted at the boys and shouted at Mr Stinkthrottle in the same breath, ‘You stop! Come back here. And you, get up, you’re just embarrassing yourself, you silly old fool!’
When she saw the boys scrabbling into the alleyway, she went back through the house moving faster than anyone would expect, and by the time they emerged from the passage out into the street she had pulled open the front door.
‘Stop! Stop!’ she shouted, hobbling up the front path like a bent little old lady once again.
The boys were out on the pavement and suddenly Fizz realised he had absolutely no idea where he was.
‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked Kevin.
Kevin shook his head.
‘Just run!’ they urged each other in the same breath.
As they ran off up the road Mrs Stinkthrottle reached the pavement. She was shouting, ‘Stop! Thieves! Burglars! Help! They’ve stolen my things! My handbag, my money, my pearls! Stop them!’ (More Stinkthrottle lies. Grrr.)
That was when Fizz’s luck ran out. On the other side of the road a couple of burly young men were just packing up for the day after having built a wall in a neighbour’s front garden. Hearing an old lady in distress, and seeing a couple of scruffy kids running away, they dropped their tools and started chasing the boys. ‘Oi, you! You’d better stop! Come back here!’
What would you have done if you’d been them? I mean,
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