Billy Angel Read online

  Billy Angel

  Sam Hay

  Illustrated by Emma Dodson

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Imprint

  For Alice and Archie

  Chapter 1

  Plumbing. That’s what the future had in store for me. From as early as I can remember, and even before that, I knew I was destined to spend my life with my arm stuck down someone else’s toilet. And to be totally honest, I wasn’t very happy about it.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Billy.’

  That’s me, age three, with a plunger on my head and a set of plastic plumbing tools on my lap. See how cheesed-off I look. That’s because what I really wanted was a bright-yellow, shiny digger, like my best friend Barry’s.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Billy.’

  There I am again. I’m the small boy standing in front of 2,000 new toilets. Yes, 2,000 toilets. I’m six and it’s my birthday treat – a visit to the toilet factory. I look ecstatic, don’t I?

  Oh, and that’s me again. It’s Christmas and I’m the one holding the giant book that doesn’t quite fit on my lap. I’m eight and the book is The A to Z of Practical Plumbing Problems. Don’t laugh. That’s really what I got for Christmas that year. It may look like I’m smiling, but inside I’m seething.

  You see my dad, William Box, is a plumber, just like his father before him and his father before him and his father before him. In fact, if you could be bothered going right back to the beginning of time, you’d probably find a William Box in a loin cloth up to his arm in dinosaur doo-doo sorting out someone’s cesspit problems.

  I’m called William Box, too. But despite the name and millions of years of tradition, I’ve always known plumbing wasn’t for me. I have absolutely no interest in pipes. Or poo. Or blocked sinks. Or smelly drains. Or leaky radiators. Or bothersome ball cocks. The only trouble is, I haven’t quite worked out how to tell my dad. Or my mum, for that matter.

  You see, Mum’s almost as potty about plumbing as Dad. She says she’s a social historian, but all she’s really interested in is how Joe Bloggs back in eighteen-something or other washed his shorts or took a whiz.

  She’s currently building a matchstick-model replica of the original London sewer system. It’s got flushing lavs and everything. It’s enough to make you weep.

  My parents talk endlessly about plumbing. They dream about plumbing. They watch plumbing programmes on TV. They read plumbing magazines. They go on holiday with other plumbers. They even crack plumbing jokes, which are not funny.

  ‘What do you call a highly skilled plumber?’

  ‘A drain surgeon.’

  No, I didn’t laugh, either.

  And that’s what I thought my destiny was. A lifetime of dreadful jokes and endless blocked loos. But I was wrong. Fate had something far stranger in store for me.

  Chapter 2

  It was the eve of my eleventh birthday and life was about to go down the pan. Completely!

  As usual, I was looking forward to a pile of pointless plumbing presents (PPPs), which I’d stuff under the bed along with all the others.

  If you ever find yourself desperately searching for a pair of polyester pyjamas with purple pliers on them, I can help you out.

  Maybe you’re itching to read about the history of the automatic washing machine, with extra diagrams and full-colour photos. If so, give me a call.

  But crap presents were the least of my worries this year. Because I was about to turn eleven. That might not sound like a big deal to you. But to a Box it’s a big occasion. You see, destiny calls us Boxes on the eve of our eleventh birthdays. And that destiny is always plumbing.

  It happened to my dad, his brothers, and Grandad, too.

  They’ll all tell you the same story: the night before they turned eleven, just as they were drifting off to the land of nod, they had the weirdest dream. A shaft of golden light appeared from the ceiling, there was a faint pong of plumber putty, and suddenly a life of smelly sinks and dirty drains beckoned to them.

  That was all it took. They got up the next day as though a whopping great water tank had burst in their brains, flooding out any other thoughts apart from plumbing.

  Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. A load of codswallop, with the distinct smell of last month’s Camembert. But it’s true. That’s how it happens in my family. Wham! Bham! Your life’s down the pan. Happy eleventh birthday.

  So you’ll understand how excited I was to go to bed the night before I turned eleven.

  Yeah, not very.

  ‘Goodnight, son, and the best of British,’ said Dad, clenching his fist in a manly gesture of encouragement, as I slunk up to bed wearing my spanner-shaped slippers. (Another PPP.)

  ‘Sleep well, sweet dreams,’ giggled Mum, as she switched off my light.

  But actually I wasn’t too worried because, unknown to them, I had a plan. There was no way I was going to Dream the Dream.

  As soon as Mum had gone, I snuck out of bed and put on my football kit. The whole shebang: boots, shin pads, socks and all. Then I climbed back into bed clutching my football in one hand and my box of Goal! back issues in the other.

  You see, I’m planning to be an international footballer. Not a plumber – international or otherwise. And I reckoned that if I dressed the part, it might make me dream of football. Not plumbing.

  For a long time I couldn’t sleep. I was trying so hard not to think about plumbing that all I could think about was plumbing. But eventually I must have dropped off because the next thing I remember was the football rolling off my bed and waking up with a start.

  I blinked at the clock.

  3:03 am.

  Had I escaped my destiny? I couldn’t remember Dreaming the Dream. And I certainly wasn’t swinging from the light at the thought of bleeding a radiator.

  I sighed deeply, lay back on my pillows and closed my eyes with a smug smile of satisfaction.

  And that’s when I heard it…

  ‘William Box? Are you William Box?’

  I sat bolt upright.

  ‘Only the address isn’t very clear. And I haven’t got much time.’

  I gasped.

  Standing at the bottom of my bed was a thuggish-looking bloke. If I’d seen him on the street, I’d have crossed the road. He was tall and mean-looking, in a hooded top and jeans. His nose was squashed, and his hair looked like a loo brush. But the weirdest thing was the light. All around him was a white light, sunglasses bright. It hurt to look.

  A rush went through my brain: was it a burglar? Or a mad axeman?

  ‘What do you want?’ I squeaked, shading my eyes and clutching my football mags, in case he made a grab for them.

  But he wasn’t listening. He was peering at a scrap of paper.

  ‘William Box, 15 Lavender Rise?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Lavender Rise? What sort of stupid, girly sounding address is that anyway?’

  Suddenly I felt cross, despite myself. The fact that some spiky weirdo in a translucent, hooded top was standing at the bottom of my bed somehow seemed less important than my street name being ridiculed.

  ‘What’s wrong with Lavender Rise?’ I said.

  ‘What’s right with it?’ he snapped. ‘But who cares what sort of frilly street you live in. Are you William Box or not?’

  I was stil
l cross, but I nodded.

  That seemed to please him, because he dropped the paper and stepped forward with a sort of twisted smile on his face.

  And that’s when an awful thought smacked me on the chops. Maybe I was actually asleep. Could this be something to do with Dreaming the Dream? Was this bloke about to tell me my future was toilet-shaped?

  ‘Look,’ I said desperately. ‘If this is anything to do with plumbing, I don’t want to know…’

  He frowned.

  ‘…Because, I am not going to be a plumber – not ever! So if you’re anything to do with Dreaming the Dream, or toilets, or central-heating systems, I’m not interested. Not in the slightest. Now, please go away.’

  I dived under the duvet and held my breath.

  But he didn’t go away.

  Suddenly, I felt a pointy finger poking my head through the covers.

  ‘Look, squirt,’ he growled. ‘I haven’t got all night. I’ve no idea what you’re wittering on about, but I’m here with a message, so stop messing around and listen.’

  Reluctantly, I peeped out. He was standing right next to my bed. ‘You’re too bright,’ I said, squinting in the light, ‘and you smell funny.’

  But he didn’t smell of plumbing putty. It was something much fouler, like burnt anchovies or grilled-sardine sandwiches.

  He frowned. Then suddenly he dulled down a little, like a TV that had just had its brightness adjusted. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘The thing is, you’ve been chosen. Your destiny is mapped out. You are to become…’

  I clasped my hands over my ears. ‘I DON’T WANT TO BE A PLUMBER!’ I yelled.

  ‘…an angel,’ he said firmly.

  ‘A what?’ I hadn’t heard him. But somehow I knew he hadn’t said plumber.

  ‘An angel!’ he growled impatiently.

  The first thing I thought was: YES! No blocked bogs for me. But then I realised what he’d actually said.

  An angel?

  ‘Don’t worry; you’re not dead or nothing. Not yet, anyway…’ he chortled to himself.

  I noticed he was missing a few teeth.

  ‘I can’t be an angel,’ I squeaked. I thought of all the angels I knew. There was the plastic one we stuck on our Christmas tree each year. She wore a pink, frilly dress and had golden, curly hair. I looked nothing like her. Thank God. And then there were the ones in the school nativity play. Always girls. Always sappy girls, with sappy wings. Lads were never angels.

  ‘Angels are just for girls,’ I said.

  He glared at me. ‘No, they aren’t.’

  I suddenly noticed he had two rather large, white, feathery things stuck to his shoulders.

  Wings?

  Angel wings?

  I’d clearly put my foot in it, which probably meant I was about to get a bashing from an oversized budgie.

  But he didn’t bash me. He just scowled, and then I realised he was counting to ten.

  I held my breath in case he was still cross when he got to the end.

  But he wasn’t.

  When he stopped counting, he took a deep breath. ‘You are to be a guardian angel on Earth and your job is to protect people.’

  ‘Protect them from what?’ I had a vision of pushing people out of the way of fast moving cars or falling pianos…

  ‘Themselves, usually,’ said the heavenly hoodie, glumly.

  ‘But aren’t guardian angels supposed to appear from heaven?’ I spluttered. ‘I mean, in all the movies, they aren’t real people, they’re, well, sort of dead ones with wings. A bit like you, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s a shortage in heaven,’ said the bloke. ‘They’ve already scraped the bottom of the barrel up there.’

  Charming.

  ‘Now listen. Your first mission is to protect a girl called Thelma Potts.’

  Thelma Potts… The name hung in the air like the pong from a particularly whiffy loo. I knew her from school. Her family owned Potts Pies – a shop selling 300 different varieties of pie. She looked like an upside-down triangle, with a spew of brown, frizzy hair that stuck out everywhere. She was five years older than me, and 500 times bigger. She was the town Judo champ. And she had four big brothers who all resembled Great Apes. Thelma Potts was the last person who needed protecting.

  I gulped. And I tried to protest, but the big bloke wasn’t listening.

  ‘You are to protect Thelma from her dark side.’

  ‘What?’ I squeaked. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Thelma Potts is in danger. Your mission is to stay close to her, and protect her from harm. That’s it!’ he said. ‘Message delivered. Sign here, please.’ He produced a sheet of paper and a white pencil.

  I folded my arms. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I will not. I don’t want to be an angel. And I certainly don’t want to be Thelma Potts’ angel.’

  Suddenly, I was blinded by the white light again. He’d slapped it back up to full beam.

  ‘You have no choice,’ he thundered. ‘SIGN!’

  And so I did.

  The hoodie-angel didn’t speak again; he simply vanished into my wardrobe.

  For five minutes I didn’t do anything. I just sat there blinking, as my eyes readjusted to the darkness. Then, gingerly, I crept over to the wardrobe and peaked inside…

  He had gone!

  Completely.

  Well, not quite. I picked up a single, white feather that was lying on the floor. I wondered whether it was from the spare pillow in the top of my wardrobe or from the scary, hoodie-angel that had spent the last ten minutes terrorising me. Then I crept back into bed, and tried desperately to Dream the Dream. I decided that being a plumber was far more appealing than being an angel. But no matter how hard I tried, it didn’t happen.

  And as the sun rose on my eleventh birthday, I realised just how far down the pan my life had actually gone.

  Chapter 3

  This is probably the point where I should tell you a bit about myself.

  Well, I’m small and skinny. I’ve got black hair that sticks out at the back. I like football, and maps. I don’t like quiche. Or rice pudding, or singing. My best friend is called Barry.

  And I’m not an angel.

  It’s impossible. I’m not even that good at helping people. I hate the sight of blood. I can’t bear it when anyone blubs. And I’m not brave. Not in the slightest. So all this angel stuff was bonkers. Someone, somewhere had obviously made a big mistake. A big, fat, super-sized mess-up.

  Anyway, I tried not to think about it as I padded downstairs that morning.

  I knew they’d be waiting for me. I put it off for as long as I could, but eventually I knew I had to face them.

  ‘He’s coming!’ I heard Mum shriek. ‘Now, remember, Willie – no pressure, let him tell you in his own time.’

  And there they were, trying to look casual at the kitchen table. They’d obviously been up for hours, biting their nails to find out whether I’d Dreamed the Dream. There were piles of newspapers and empty plates on the table. And the stress was showing.

  Dad was pretending to read his favourite plumbing mag: Bleeding Radiators. (I promise you, that’s what it’s called.) Except it was upside down and I could see his hands were shaking.

  Mum was buttering both sides of a bit of toast. ‘Happy Birthday, son,’ she dropped the toast and hugged me tight.

  ‘This is for you, lad,’ said Dad, pointing to an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in purple paper with pictures of taps all over it. (You’re probably wondering where my parents get all their weird plumbing stuff – the cards… the wrapping paper… Yeah, I know it’s not in the shops you go to, but trust me, plumbers live in a world of their own. They shop in different shops to the rest of us. And believe me; you do not want to go there.)

  I sat down and tried to summon up the enthusiasm to open the parcel. I sighed and halfheartedly pawed at the paper.

  ‘You look tired, love,’ smiled Mum.

  ‘Too many dreams, eh, son?’
chirped Dad.

  I grimaced, and Dad’s eyes lit up. He obviously assumed it had happened. That I’d spent the night dreaming of leaky pipes and blocked bogs. I wanted to scream, ‘I didn’t Dream the blinkin’ Dream, all right! I’m not going to be a plumber (though I may be an angel).’

  But I didn’t. Largely because by now I’d managed to convince myself that last night’s nightmare was just that – a nightmare. Not real. Of course it couldn’t be real. So, instead, I concentrated on unwrapping my gift.

  ‘It’s, er… brilliant, Dad!’ I said trying to sound sincere.

  It was a leather tool bag. A big blighter. The type of bag you’d expect a superhero plumber to have if your boiler had exploded and was spewing boiling-hot water over your entire family, and he’d just flown in to sort it out. This bag could definitely save the day, probably all by itself. It was brilliant, if you’re as potty about plumbing as my dad is.

  ‘Look inside, son,’ said Dad excitedly. ‘They’re all engraved with your initials.’

  It was like a Tardis in there. Tools. Tools. And, er, more tools. There were big ones. Bigger ones. And truly mammoth-sized ones. There were at least six different spanners. Piles and piles of pliers. Three hacksaws and a plunger. Plus hundreds of dangerous-looking implements I didn’t recognise at all.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Dad.’

  I genuinely didn’t.

  But it didn’t seem to matter, because the next thing I knew I was sandwiched between Mum and Dad in an emotional embrace.

  ‘Welcome to the business, son.’

  ‘We’re so proud of you.’

  And that was that. Angel or not. I was now William Box Esquire: trainee plumber.

  Of course I wasn’t really a trainee plumber. Not yet. This isn’t Oliver Twist. Children don’t go up chimneys any more. Nor do they begin their plumbing apprenticeships aged eleven. I was still allowed to go to school and have a life of sorts. But there was no doubt about it – my course was set.

  For the time being, I decided to lump it. After all, there wasn’t much else I could do. It was the start of the holidays. And Mum and Dad were strict stickers to the ‘no graft, no pocket money’ rule. So, as usual, I was set to spend my summer helping Dad, when I’d much rather have been out playing footie with my mates.