Billy Angel (2 page)

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.

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.

It's not that bad, I suppose. I just carry the tools and shake my head and sigh along with Dad when he arrives at a job. And he does pay me. (The fact that I'm secretly saving for soccer school is strictly between you and me.)

Anyway – after what felt like three days listening to Dad droning on about each tool in turn: explaining its merits, uses and complete unabridged history, the phone rang… And rang… And rang. Until Dad finally stopped talking long enough to answer it.

I helped myself to a bowl of cornflakes.

Dad was on the phone for ages. I noticed he was sighing and nodding, and tutting and puffing, which no doubt meant it was an emergency plumbing problem. Dad's favourite. They're usually the most complicated, and they make the most money.

I stopped listening and instead concentrated on my cornflakes. I was just about to stuff a huge spoonful into my mouth when…

‘No problem, Mr Potts, the lad and I will be round within the hour.'

Potts! Dad said
Mr Potts
! Surely it could not be Thelma Potts'
dad
? I froze. Then I cursed myself. Potts was a common enough name. I chuckled softly, then stuffed the cornflakes in.

I shouldn't have.

‘Yes, I know exactly where your shop is,' Dad was chortling: ‘You can't exactly miss it. Not with that three-foot pie outside.'

Three-foot pie
?

POTTS' PIES!

I gasped. A tunnel of air sucked the cornflakes down my windpipe. And for a second or two I couldn't breathe. I think I may have turned blue, because Dad suddenly dropped the phone and dived across the kitchen to give me a hearty clatter on the back, which ejected the cornflakes from my mouth like a cork out of a bottle.

‘Don't eat so fast,' he scolded, as I collapsed coughing on the floor. ‘Sorry, Mr Potts, my apprentice was acting up. We'll be there soon. And yes, I'll ask for your daughter, Thelma.'

I was still collapsed in a coughing fit, with my head spinning.

Thelma Potts?

Thelma Potts
!

The face of the hoodie-angel burst into my brain, and I suddenly felt rather peculiar, like someone had just stuck ice cubes under my armpits. Stay calm, I told myself. This is not a sign. It's a coincidence.
I am not an angel
!

Dad didn't seem to notice my inner turmoil. He was grinning his excited plumber grin. The one he wears when a particularly nasty plumbing problem appears…

‘Come on, Billy, grab your bag. You're going to love this one.'

I was not. If only Dad knew how little I would love this one, perhaps he wouldn't have been grinning quite so much.

We left straight away. Both of us armed. One of us dangerous! Watch out, sewage systems, William Box Jr has been unleashed. And he now comes fully equipped with his own set of scary tools.

Dad didn't seem worried.