The Donut Diaries (19 page)

It didn’t matter. We were already out of the admin block, moving faster than we’d ever moved before. True, it wasn’t actually
that
fast, but you have to remember that Renfrew had very little legs, and I was carrying fifty donuts inside me. But we also had the fate of a camp full of fat kids, plus about a hundred badgers, on our shoulders, so that drove us on.

Of course, there were no goons out on patrol,
and
the watchtowers were unmanned, or else we’d have been cut down like poor old Ernesto Gogol.

But I did hear the pounding of heavy feet behind us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a group of Lardies coming after us. Somehow they’d got hold of paintball guns. My guess was that the goons had handed them over, and told them to finish us off – they didn’t want to get their hands dirty in the actual massacre. A couple of speculative rounds whizzed over our heads, and one splatted on a hut in front of us.

I saw the narrow passage leading to the grim horror of Hut Nineteen. And yes, there, waiting for us, were the reassuring shapes I had come to know so well. They were arranged in a phalanx formation, Spartan style.

J-Man stepped forward. To my delight, I saw that he was carrying a paintball gun.

‘So, the raid on the armoury went well?’ I panted.

‘As you see. Now, go and do your job, and we will do ours.’

‘Just hold them off for as long as you can.’

‘They shall not pass.’

I shook his hand, and then shook the hands of the others: Igor, Florian Frost, Dong.

Brave men.

Then I ran through the laser corridor, ignoring the laser detectors. No need to hide or crawl now that the game was afoot.

Behind me I heard the first exchanges: the yells of annoyance and surprise from the Lardies, followed by the first cries of pain. J-Man giving orders.

‘Front rank, fire! Second rank, fire!’

I knew that they couldn’t hold out for ever against those numbers. They just had to buy me and Renfrew enough time to get away with the badgers.

We didn’t bother with the window this time: I just kicked the door down, like a proper action hero (OK, the wood was rotten, but it was still a pretty good feeling).

Inside, I sensed the badgers’ excitement immediately. They seemed to know that great (or terrible) things were happening.

As we’d planned, Renfrew pulled away the loose floorboards and opened the trap door while I ran to open the badger cages. On the way, I couldn’t resist having a quick look through the window. There were dozens of Lardies lying dazed and splattered across the field, but the Hut Four heroes were being driven steadily back. I
saw
my guys take hits: the red rounds punching them in the chest, in the arms, in the face. But somehow they still held the narrow passage.

Back to the cages. Some of the beasts were so traumatized that they retreated, terrified of freedom. Others snapped and hissed, unaware that I was their friend, not their tormentor. But most jumped straight out. That encouraged the rest, and soon the hut was a writhing mass of badger.

I went back to the window again. I saw that my men had fallen back through the pass. Their ammo was out – but so, it seemed, was that of the enemy. As I watched I saw the huge figure of Demetrius the Destroyer lumber forward. He was met by Dong, who blocked his way. They wrestled like two great sumo champions. The Destroyer dwarfed Dong, but Dong had the
technique
, and he threw the bigger man on his back.

But then an even bulkier figure stepped forward – Hercule Paine himself. He calmly took a paintball Luger from inside his jacket, and casually shot Dong between the eyes. The Chinese kid was down and out. But his place was taken by J-Man.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ I heard Paine sneer. ‘It’s over. You know it’s over.’

‘I told my friend no one was getting through. You want to try to make me a liar? Bring it on!’

I last saw the two of them grappling together in the narrow pass. But I could not wait for the outcome. I heard the first baying of the hounds: the dogs were coming!

‘Come on, Dermot,’ Renfrew yelled. ‘We’ve got to get out now, or it’s all for nothing.’

‘You go first,’ I said, this time meaning it as a favour to my little friend, and not out of fear of the dark or spiders or the ghosts of long-dead Italian prisoners. ‘I’ll follow behind the badgers and drive them on.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s got to be you. If the Lardies get down in the tunnel with us, I’ll hold them off. You have to get through to tell the world the truth about Camp Fatso. You’ve lived it. You tell it.’

There was no time to debate the issue. I nodded and threw myself down the shaft, pushing through the cluster of nervous badgers who were already there, snickering and snapping. I sensed, to my relief, that the others were all coming behind me. Whether they were really following me, Pied Piper style, or just fleeing from the sound of the dreaded
sausage
dogs, I couldn’t say.

I entered the tunnel. It definitely seemed to have shrunk a little since my first reconnaissance mission . . .

Sweating now, heart racing, every nerve on fire, I crawled and crawled and crawled. Had it really been this long before? The badgers were pressing behind me: this was their world, and they sensed freedom and safety ahead, as well as the peril behind. But there was no room for them to squeeze past.

And then suddenly I was at the exit shaft. Exhausted, I heaved myself up the ladder, reached above my head, thrust at the trap door, flung it back. Fresh air. Hope. Salvation.

My head was through. My arms. Then . . . nothing. I shoved, pushed, heaved, but I was stuck fast.

But how? Had the opening somehow narrowed?

No. Of course.

The fifty donuts!

Beneath me I felt the pressure build, heard the sounds of a hundred desperate badgers. OUCH! A sharp nip. They were turning on me! I had to get out or they would tear me apart! Eaten alive by badgers – what a way to go.

I heard a voice from below.

‘Dermot, what is it?’

I couldn’t get my head down to answer, and didn’t want to yell out in case I gave away our position.

And then I sensed movement above me. Two figures emerged from the gloom of the trees.

Goons!

Failure.

It had all been for nothing. I felt strong arms grab me, tug me, lift me. I was out.

And I smelled a strong, familiar smell.

‘Pfumpf.’

‘Well done, Donut,’ said another voice. ‘Looks like you pulled it off. The Badger Protection League is for ever in your debt.’

‘Ludmilla . . .Tamara . . . what are you doing here?’

‘Explain later. We’ve got to move. These woods are patrolled,’ said Tamara.

‘Right. But wait – Renfrew.’

I watched the badgers stream out of the escape tunnel, flowing like excited furry water. They were free and safe. I sensed their joy as they capered and danced through the trees.

And then finally Renfrew’s head emerged, and Ludmilla lifted him out, as easily as you’d lift
your
pet hamster out of its cage.

But elsewhere in the woods I heard the sounds of pursuit. Goons shouting, dogs yapping.

We ran blindly through the trees, with the thick undergrowth tearing at our clothes. Finally we made it to the road.

‘If we get to the village we’ll be safe,’ said Tamara. ‘We can call the police from there.’

And then I saw the lights of an approaching car.

‘Flag it down,’ said Renfrew. ‘We can get a lift.’

Ludmilla stepped out into the middle of the
road
like a huge iron robot. The car stopped.

‘Get in,’ said a voice.

We piled into the back seats, our relief gushing out as breathless laughter. The car felt safe. Outside I saw the beams of torches cutting through the trees. The car started moving. I looked at the hands on the steering wheel. They were clothed in black gloves. But there was something unnatural about the flesh beneath.

Something . . . artificial.

The driver turned slowly towards us. And there I saw the grimly smiling face of Mr Fricker.

Saturday 14 April

‘FRICKER!’ SQUEAKED SPAM
. ‘No way!’

‘F-f-f-f-f-flipping h-h-h-heck,’ said Corky, whose stammer was definitely improving.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Spam. ‘If you got nabbed by Fricker, how come you’re here and not, like, dog meat or something?’

We were sitting on the wall by the canal. It was the usual gang: Spam, Renfrew, Corky and Jim. And me, of course. I’d been telling the story, while Renfrew sat quietly, an enigmatic smile on
his
face. Well, the enigmatic smile alternated with bulging cheeks as he ate one of the donuts I’d bought for everyone.

‘Don’t you get it? He was a member of the Badger Protection League. He just infiltrated Camp Fatso to help rescue them. He knew where the tunnel came out, and arranged for Tamara and Ludmilla to be there when we emerged. He’s a bit like Q in James Bond.’

‘Oh, cool,’ said Spam. ‘So, he’s a goody, after all? Who’d have thought it?’

‘The world’s a complicated place, Spam,’ I said. ‘It’s possible that the same person can be a goody and a baddy, depending on . . . stuff . . . er . . . circumstances.’

‘But what happened next?’ asked Spam. ‘I mean, with the camp, and your friends, J-Man and the others?’

‘Oh, as soon as we raised the alarm the security forces went in there and liberated the place – but not before J-Man and the rest of the Hut Four guys managed to break into Hut One and liberated all the crisps and chocolate the Lardies had stashed there. J-Man texted me just after he got out – he said kids were wandering around with chocolate all over their faces, hallucinating on their sugar-and-salt highs, and the Lardies could do nothing about it. The camp’s been closed down now. They’ll never be able to torture kids with gruel again. And the badgers are safe.’

‘What about Doc Morlock?’

‘I heard she escaped. But somehow I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.’

‘What a load of old rubbish,’ laughed Jim, who’s known me much longer than the others.
‘You
might fool these guys, but I know what you’re like, Dermot. You’re just making it all up. You had a boring two weeks in fat camp and thought you’d turn it into one of your stories. I mean, badgers . . . goons . . . guns . . . electric fences . . . it’s a joke. Come on, tell us, Renfrew – it’s all a load of claptrap, isn’t it?’

Renfrew shrugged and pointed to his full mouth, indicating that he couldn’t speak. The others all took that as an admission that we’d invented the story. I wasn’t going to protest. Sometimes the more you go on about something, particularly if it’s about what a hero you are, and how you’ve saved loads of badgers from a terrible fate, the less people are inclined to believe you.

And then I saw a group of girls walking towards us along the path by the canal. It was
Tamara
Bello with the posse of scary girls who’d been there for the toenail incident, which now felt like about a hundred years ago. Ludmilla was with them as well. It looked like they’d given her a bit of a makeover. She looked quite nice in her pfumpfish way.

I got ready for an unpleasant combination of being ignored and insulted.