Buried Alive! Read Online Free PDF Page B

fishing. Biscuits followed. I sidled over, stepping high, holding my breath.
    â€˜Maybe we could try a bit of fishing, boys,’ Dad said eagerly.
    â€˜Yeah, maybe,’ said Biscuits. ‘Fishing is the sort of sport I like best. You don’t rush about. You just sit. And you can eat your fish after!’
    I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t like the idea of being on the pier for ages, especially not perched right at the edge, by the railings.
    One of the boys stiffened and hauled in his line.
    â€˜He’s got one! A real whopper!’ said Dad.
    We edged nearer to watch. It was a big mistake. A great gasping wriggling pop-eyed fish flapped in the air as it was reeled in. The boy seized it and tore the bait from its mouth, ripping it horribly.
    â€˜Oh!’ I whispered, covering my own lips.
    It got a lot worse. The fish was flopping about frantically, its poor torn mouth an O of agony. The boy held on hard and took aim. Ithought he had taken pity on the fish and was going to throw it into the sea. No. He took the gasping fish and whacked its head hard on the wooden planks. The fish stopped flapping. It lay still, a grey slimey sad dead thing.
    I felt the fish I’d eaten for lunch flapping inside my tummy. There was a Gents near the end of the pier. I made a run for it, forgetting about the creaking planks in this new emergency. I made it into a cubicle – just. I was very very sick. It was horrible – but it made me feel better too. I didn’t want any fish inside me ever again.
    Biscuits was waiting for me when I came out.
    â€˜Have you been sick?’ he asked rather unnecessarily.
    â€˜Mmm,’ I said, and rinsed my mouth out.
    â€˜I’m hardly ever sick,’ said Biscuits. ‘You must feel horribly empty now. Would you like a biscuit?’ He felt in his pocket.
    â€˜No thanks!’ I said quickly.
    â€˜Come and get a bit of fresh air. It’s all pongy in here,’ said Biscuits.
    I must have looked as grey as the poor fish because Biscuits put his arm round me.
    â€˜You’ll feel better in a minute,’ he said, very kindly.
    Then we heard a horrible noise from thevery end of the pier. Jeering. And then silly juicy kissy noises.
    â€˜Ooh! Look at the little Mummy’s boys have a cuddle-wuddle!’
    It was Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face, sitting up on the railing at the end of the pier, right beside a sign saying DANGER. The sign was Dead Accurate.
    Biscuits sprang away from me as if I was red hot. I certainly felt fiery, blood bubbling in my head like a Jacuzzi.
    â€˜Let’s go, Biscuits,’ I said urgently, starting to back away.
    â€˜Biscuits! What sort of a daft poncey name is that?’ said Prickle-Head
    â€˜It’s a nickname, right?’ said Biscuits. He added, bravely but unwisely, ‘Yours is a lot dafter.’
    â€˜So what’s
my
nickname, eh?’ said Prickle-Head, jumping off the railing and standing in front of Biscuits. Pinch-Face copied him, hands on hips, legs wide apart.
    I looked round desperately. Dad was still halfway down the pier, talking to the fishermen.
    â€˜Looking for Mumsie-Wumsie to come rushing to the rescue?’ said Prickle-Head. ‘Ooooh dear. She’s not around this time, is she?
Shame!
So, Fatso Big-Bum Biscuits –what’s
my
nickname, eh?’
    Biscuits opened his mouth. I knew he was going to come straight out with it. Prickle-Head. Prickle-Head would not be amused. He had his great Doc Martens on. Biscuits was as round as a football. It looked like he was going to get kicked.
    â€˜Your nickname’s The Boss,’ I blurted out.
    Biscuits blinked, astonished.
    Prickle-Head looked surprised too.
    â€˜The Boss?’ he repeated slowly, seeking out hidden insulting meanings.
    â€˜Yes, we call you The Boss because you’re obviously boss of all the beach,’ I said.
    Prickle-Head sniggered, obviously dead chuffed with his new nickname.
    â€˜OK, OK,