Buried Alive! Read online

  ‘You can’t fool me,’ said Mum – but she sounded uncertain.

  She waited . . . and then we heard her tiptoeing out.

  I felt the most desperate giggle shaking my whole body. I had to go down under the sheets to muffle it. Biscuits was snorting too. A little too loudly.

  ‘Sh! She’ll come back! We’d better go to sleep now,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m wide awake,’ said Biscuits. ‘And I’m starving. I’m going to ask for double sausages at breakfast. Triple.’

  He did too. Mrs Jones laughed delightedly and called him Little Lord Greedyguts.

  ‘Anything to oblige and fill the Royal Tum,’ she said, bustling off to the kitchen.

  Biscuits and I laughed too, but Mum frowned. She wasn’t in a good mood anyway because of her disturbed night.

  ‘Really, Biscuits! It’s very rude of you to keep asking Mrs Jones for more food. She gives you very generous portions as it is. You mustn’t do it.’

  ‘But she likes it when I ask for more. She thinks it’s funny,’ Biscuits protested.

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s funny at all,’ said Mum. ‘And you can’t possibly want any more sausages. You’ll be sick.’

  ‘I’m never sick,’ said Biscuits. ‘Even on the day I had a Christmas dinner with my mum and dad and then we went to my auntie’s and we had another whole Christmas dinner with her and then we went to my gran’s in the evening and we had a big buffet and I ate all the sausages on sticks, every single one. I wasn’t sick then. And I wasn’t even sick on my birthday when—’

  ‘I’m getting sick of this subject,’ said Mum.

  Mrs Jones was coming back with a plate of sizzling sausages, so Mum was forced to smile and be extra grateful.

  Biscuits tucked into the sausages. He ate them all. The whole plateful. And then he smacked his lips happily.

  ‘When you die they’ll pickle your stomach and doctors will come and look at it and marvel,’ I said.

  Biscuits still looked hopefully at the ice-cream stall as we went on the beach, but after one glance at Mum he could see there was no point asking.

  Dad made a great to-do of getting the deckchairs positioned and the windbreak up.

  ‘You’re probably wasting your time. It looks as if it’s going to start raining,’ said Mum, eyeing the grey sky.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Dad. ‘The sun’s just about to break through, you’ll see.’

  Mum sniffed, pulled on another cardigan, and got her book out of her beach-bag. Dad reached for his paper, taking great deep breaths to show he was appreciating the balmy air, though there were goose pimples from the end of his shorts to his ankles.

  ‘You two boys had better run about a bit to get warm,’ Mum said.

  ‘I’m warm enough,’ said Biscuits, getting out his comic.

  I read my own comic for a bit, and then I got my drawing book and doodled around doing a picture strip of me and Biscuits being Super-Tim and Biscuits-Boy. Super-Tim swooped up to the castle battlements and rescued damsels in distress who were swooningly grateful. He rounded up evil enemies, conquering them with a swift chop to the chops. ‘Kerpow!’ said Super-Tim and ‘Wow!’ said Biscuits-Boy, marvelling at his best friend’s bravery and brawn.

  ‘What are you drawing?’ said Biscuits, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Just silly rubbish,’ I said, crumpling the page quickly. ‘Come on, Biscuits, let’s do something. Let’s go looking for shells and seaweed and stuff and then identify it from my seaside nature book.’

  ‘That sounds like super fun – not!’ said Biscuits. ‘Just like school.’

  ‘No, we might find something mega-rare. Some extraordinary lugworm all coiled up in the sand and we’ll start digging him up and find he’s vast, one of the great loathly worms they had in the Middle Ages. Or – or we’ll pick up this ordinary old stone and we’ll see all the markings on it and it’ll be a Stone Age flint used by a caveman to make an axe to attack all the woolly mammoths and sabre-tooth tigers. Aah! I’ve got a better idea! Let’s find a cave and explore it and see if we can find any cave paintings.’

  ‘No, let’s find a cave that long-ago pirates used and they hid their ill-gotten gains in it, gold coins and jewels and stuff, and we’ll find it in a rotting old trunk and live like lottery winners forever,’ said Biscuits.

  ‘OK, OK, well, the cave could have both,’ I said. ‘Let’s find it, eh? Explorers’ gear required, Biscuits-Boy.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Super-Tim.’

  We got the spades and ran up the beach to where the sand dunes started teetering upwards in an uneven cliff. Little sand-martins flew in and out of an entire birdy housing estate right up at the top. There were a few shallow cubby-holes at the bottom of the cliff, but none that could be seriously described as caves.

  ‘We’ll have to tunnel to discover the secret entrance,’ I said, attacking the soft sand vigorously with my spade.

  ‘Oh oh! Hard labour time again. Can’t you summon up your superhuman powers and blast your way through to save them?’ said Biscuits, sitting on the handle of his spade. ‘Then I can sit here and have a bit of a rest.’

  ‘You can’t have a rest now. You haven’t done any work. Come on, let’s get digging.’

  But as we both set to, Mum started shouting at us. Something about Silly and Dangerous and Stop-it-at-once.

  ‘What’s she on about now?’ Biscuits muttered. ‘Maybe you’re not supposed to dig on a full stomach?’

  ‘That’s swimming,’ I said. ‘No, maybe she’s worried that we might get sand in our eyes. Actually, I already have, it’s all gritty.’

  I blinked. Mum loomed large through a hazy blur.

  ‘You silly boys! You mustn’t ever tunnel in sandcliffs like that. It’s terribly dangerous. The sand can easily shift and fall on top of you and trap you. Never ever do that. Tim? Why are you screwing up your face like that? Oh darling, have you got sand in your eye?’

  She tried making me blow my nose but it didn’t work.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, hating the fuss Mum was making in front of Biscuits. ‘It’s fine now,’ I pretended, giving my eye a quick rub with my fist.

  This was a serious mistake. My eye suddenly felt as if it was being scrubbed with emery-paper.

  ‘Oh dear goodness. Hold still, Tim. Oh, your poor eye,’ Mum said, as I hopped about in agony, my eye squeezed shut, tears seeping down my cheeks.

  ‘Don’t carry on like that, Tim, it’s just a speck of sand,’ said Dad, coming over. Then he had a proper look. ‘Oh dear. It looks like you’ve got half the beach in there, old son. We need some water to wash it out.’

  ‘I’ll get a bucket and get some sea-water,’ said Biscuits.

  ‘No, dear – it’s salty, that’s no use. Come with me, Tim,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll have to take you back to the hotel and we’ll use a proper eye bath.’

  So Mum whisked me off while Biscuits and Dad stayed on the beach. I tried to stop crying, terrified that Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face might bob up out of nowhere and call me a cissy crybaby, but my eye hurt so much I couldn’t help it.

  ‘You poor darling,’ Mum said distractedly, as we stumbled across the cabbage field and down the windy footpaths. ‘I’ll get them to phone for a doctor when we get to the hotel. Or maybe it would be better to dial 999 for an ambulance. You can’t be too careful with eyes. I think you should go to the hospital.’

  I started crying harder. By the time we got to the hotel we were both convinced I was going to end up blind in both eyes. Mum was crying too.

  ‘What’s the matter. Has the little lad had an accident?’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Oh dear, sand in his eye, is it? Don’t you fret, we’ll sort it out in no time.’

  She picked me up in her big strong arms as if I were no bigger than baby Keanu. She swept me into her kitchen, sat me down on her draining board, and ran some cold water into a cup. She held it against my hurting eye, tipped my head back, and told me to open the sore eye as wide as possible. It stopped hurting quite so badly. She did