know all this stuff?’ I asked.
‘Gran buys old books about Ireland in the charity shop. She wants us to know all about this side of the world.’
Shane and his gran, Big Ella, had come to live here when he was little. He’s my best mate. Big Ella spends most of her time painting huge colourful pictures. Her most famous one, ‘The Druidstone’, is hanging in the town museum.
‘We read one about castles in olden times,’ Shane was saying.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You’re not listening, dopey Milo.’
‘I am. Go on.’
‘Well, really listen. What’s the point in me having to read heavy stuff if you don’t listen? I’m telling you that the people in castles like this used to pour oil from that place up there on to enemies down here who’d try to break in the big door.’
‘For real?’ I said. ‘Cool.’
‘Not cool, Milo,’ laughed Shane. ‘Hot, actually.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘The oil would be boiling hot, Milo.’
‘Awesome!’ I gasped.
‘Not so awesome if it was just a few neighbours coming for tea and bikkies, and a daft sentry up there thinking they were enemies. Imagine that, Milo.’
‘Hey,’ I grinned. ‘Then the word “hothead” would have real meaning, wouldn’t it?’
‘That’s gross,’ said Shane, giving me a push that made me drop my bag of football gear. I shoved it behind a rock so that I wouldn’t have to haul it with me while we sneaked around. We could hear the hammering from the courtyard as we eased our way along by the boundary wall.
‘Good job your face is dark and your sweatshirt is
grey
, Shane,’ I said. ‘They fit in with the stone wall so you won’t be seen. I’ll stand on the inside and hide behind you,so that I won’t be seen either.’
‘What do you mean my sweatshirt is
grey
?’ he said. ‘It’s white, just like yours.’
I put my sleeve against his. ‘See?’ I said.
‘Doh! You’re right,’ he nodded his head. ‘Gran just shoves all colours into the washing machine. She doesn’t do like it says in the ads on telly.’
‘Listen to us, Shane,’ I said, grinning. ‘We’re trespassing here, in an ancient historic castle where we could be caught and dumped in a dungeon, and we’re talking like a couple of sissies in a soap ad!’
We laughed at that.
When we made it around to the front of the castle, we stopped dead, too gobsmacked for words.
The main entrance to the castle that had been boarded up for years and years – even before Mum and Dad had been born – wastotally done up.
‘That’s more than awesome,’ I whispered. ‘They’ve even restored the portcullis.’
‘The what?’ Shane whispered back.
‘The portcullis,’ I explained. Ha, I was glad that I knew something he didn’t. I have a Lego fort in my bedroom that I play with. Just now and then, only when I’m really bored, of course. ‘That huge pointy gate thing up there,’ I said. ‘That would be lowered during a battle to stop attackers getting in from the front.’
‘And what about the boiling oil around the other side?’ asked Shane.
‘Well, I suppose they only used that if some gang actually did get in the back way,’ I said lamely.
There was a shout from under the portcullis and two men headed towards us. And they were angry.
We made it to the back gate and out on to the pavement, still running until we reached an alley off the street. We both leaned against the wall and heaved breath into our lungs.
Then we heard voices that we very definitely didn’t want to hear.
CHAPTER THREE
MISS LEE TO THE RESCUE
‘ W ell, well, if it isn’t the dozy duo. Is the bogey man after you, guys?’
It was our arch enemies, Wedge and Crunch, two toughs always up to no good.
‘What scared you nerds?’ sneered Wedge.
‘Scared? Nah,’ I said, trying to sound tough and confident – but the words sounded like a sick mouse coughing up a bit of hard cheese.
Crunch grabbed my jacket and pulled me so close to his ugly face that I could
‘Gran buys old books about Ireland in the charity shop. She wants us to know all about this side of the world.’
Shane and his gran, Big Ella, had come to live here when he was little. He’s my best mate. Big Ella spends most of her time painting huge colourful pictures. Her most famous one, ‘The Druidstone’, is hanging in the town museum.
‘We read one about castles in olden times,’ Shane was saying.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You’re not listening, dopey Milo.’
‘I am. Go on.’
‘Well, really listen. What’s the point in me having to read heavy stuff if you don’t listen? I’m telling you that the people in castles like this used to pour oil from that place up there on to enemies down here who’d try to break in the big door.’
‘For real?’ I said. ‘Cool.’
‘Not cool, Milo,’ laughed Shane. ‘Hot, actually.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘The oil would be boiling hot, Milo.’
‘Awesome!’ I gasped.
‘Not so awesome if it was just a few neighbours coming for tea and bikkies, and a daft sentry up there thinking they were enemies. Imagine that, Milo.’
‘Hey,’ I grinned. ‘Then the word “hothead” would have real meaning, wouldn’t it?’
‘That’s gross,’ said Shane, giving me a push that made me drop my bag of football gear. I shoved it behind a rock so that I wouldn’t have to haul it with me while we sneaked around. We could hear the hammering from the courtyard as we eased our way along by the boundary wall.
‘Good job your face is dark and your sweatshirt is
grey
, Shane,’ I said. ‘They fit in with the stone wall so you won’t be seen. I’ll stand on the inside and hide behind you,so that I won’t be seen either.’
‘What do you mean my sweatshirt is
grey
?’ he said. ‘It’s white, just like yours.’
I put my sleeve against his. ‘See?’ I said.
‘Doh! You’re right,’ he nodded his head. ‘Gran just shoves all colours into the washing machine. She doesn’t do like it says in the ads on telly.’
‘Listen to us, Shane,’ I said, grinning. ‘We’re trespassing here, in an ancient historic castle where we could be caught and dumped in a dungeon, and we’re talking like a couple of sissies in a soap ad!’
We laughed at that.
When we made it around to the front of the castle, we stopped dead, too gobsmacked for words.
The main entrance to the castle that had been boarded up for years and years – even before Mum and Dad had been born – wastotally done up.
‘That’s more than awesome,’ I whispered. ‘They’ve even restored the portcullis.’
‘The what?’ Shane whispered back.
‘The portcullis,’ I explained. Ha, I was glad that I knew something he didn’t. I have a Lego fort in my bedroom that I play with. Just now and then, only when I’m really bored, of course. ‘That huge pointy gate thing up there,’ I said. ‘That would be lowered during a battle to stop attackers getting in from the front.’
‘And what about the boiling oil around the other side?’ asked Shane.
‘Well, I suppose they only used that if some gang actually did get in the back way,’ I said lamely.
There was a shout from under the portcullis and two men headed towards us. And they were angry.
We made it to the back gate and out on to the pavement, still running until we reached an alley off the street. We both leaned against the wall and heaved breath into our lungs.
Then we heard voices that we very definitely didn’t want to hear.
CHAPTER THREE
MISS LEE TO THE RESCUE
‘ W ell, well, if it isn’t the dozy duo. Is the bogey man after you, guys?’
It was our arch enemies, Wedge and Crunch, two toughs always up to no good.
‘What scared you nerds?’ sneered Wedge.
‘Scared? Nah,’ I said, trying to sound tough and confident – but the words sounded like a sick mouse coughing up a bit of hard cheese.
Crunch grabbed my jacket and pulled me so close to his ugly face that I could
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