Billy Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

people, she forgets to sell anything.’
    Guiltily, I bought a pink pencil sharpener with a love heart on it and vowed to throw it away the minute I got out of the shop. I also left with two bits of advice from the angel lady. Firstly, and most importantly, she told me not to worry about wings. (How did she know I was worried? She was right of course: I was absolutely brown-pants panicking that I was about to sprout a huge pair of feathered appendages that I’d somehow have to hide at football practice.)
    She also told me to listen to my inner angel. That bit of advice didn’t sound useful at all.Because so far my inner angel was telling me I should go home and hide under my bed for three weeks. But I thanked her anyway, and promised to give her an update soon.
    By the time I got back to the pie shop, Dad and Grant had finished and were now sitting scoffing pies in the slightly less smelly pie-shop kitchen.
    â€˜At last!’ said Dad, dribbling pie fat down his chin.
    â€˜I er… bumped into a friend,’ I said lamely, offering them cups of stone-cold tea.
    Dad smiled. ‘Ah, don’t fret, son, I know what we found today wasn’t pleasant. Sometimes plumbing can be tough, but the rewards are immense. You should go and run some water down that sink now – it’s like a babbling brook!’
    I declined the offer. I also turned down the pie that Grant offered me. I just couldn’t forget the fish eyes.
    â€˜Grant’s been telling me about this pie-eating competition tomorrow,’ said Dad, cramming another overloaded forkful into his mouth. ‘It’s fascinating.’ He chewed for several minutes before wiping the grease off his chin. ‘Apparently the world record for beef-and-potato,deep-fried pie scoffing stands at 15 pies in ten minutes.’
    I gaped.
Fifteen pies in ten minute
s? Impossible! (Almost as impossible as Grant’s love for Thelma.)
    â€˜That record was actually set back in the 1950s,’ said Grant. ‘And it’s never been broken.’
    â€˜That’s a lot of pies,’ I said.
    Grant nodded. ‘The record was set by a local man: Stan Spooner – he was known as Mr Pie. He was actually a pie chef here, back when Thelma’s Grandpa ran the business….’
    I suddenly got that weird feeling again. Like someone was nipping my ears to make sure I was listening. I frowned. It was actually quite annoying.
    Grant shook his head sadly. ‘A bit of a sad business really. Stan Spooner died the night he set the record.’
    â€˜Died?’ I breathed. The nipping sensation was getting worse.
    â€˜Yes, he somehow managed to swallow all 15 pies, but then he pushed his luck and decided to try for number 16.’ Grant sighed. ‘It was his undoing. The 16th pie got wedged in his throat and he choked to death.’
    â€˜What!’ I gasped. ‘He died here?’
    Grant shrugged his shoulders. ‘Competitive eating’s a dangerous sport. Not for the faint-hearted. Would you like to see a picture of him?’
    Grant beckoned me into the pie shop and there, high above the counter, was a small black-and-white photograph of a cheerful, red-faced bloke holding an enormous pie.

    â€˜That’s him,’ said Grant. ‘It was taken just before the competition.’
    â€˜What a dreadful way to go,’ I whispered. ‘Choking on a pie.’
    â€˜Oh, it wasn’t so bad. Sort of suited him,’ said Grant. ‘Pies were his life. He always wanted to be famous as a great pie eater, and dying the way he did, well he sort of got his wish. You know he even left his body to medical science. It was in his will. He liked the idea of doctors trying to work out how he could eat so many pies.’
    Just then Dad appeared. ‘OK, Grant, we’ll be off now,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Potts I’ll let him have my invoice in a day or two.’
    I was still too stunned to speak, but my head