Dedication

For Philip Onyango… …the bravest little boy I have ever met.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 - Cabbagy Water

Chapter 2 - A Duck Quacking

Chapter 3 - Plumbing Weekly

Chapter 4 - Mystery and Wonder

Chapter 5 - A Little Broken

Chapter 6 - Cold Wet Egg

Chapter 7 - Bags of Manure

Chapter 8 - A Small Wig in a Jar

Chapter 9 - The Black Cat

Chapter 10 - Everything

Chapter 11 - Cheesy Beans and Sausage

Chapter 12 - The Love Bomb

Chapter 13 - A Lifetime of Crime

Chapter 14 - Nosy Neighbour

Chapter 15 - Reckless and Thrilling

Chapter 16 - ‘N’ ‘O’ Spells ‘NO’

Chapter 17 - Planning the Heist

Chapter 18 - Visiting Hours

Chapter 19 - A Small Explosive Device

Chapter 20 - Boom Boom Boom

Chapter 21 - A Tap-Shoe

Chapter 22 - Lycra Lynch Mob

Chapter 23 - Caught by the Fuzz

Chapter 24 - Dark Waters

Chapter 25 - Haunted by Ghosts

Chapter 26 - A Figure in the Dark

Chapter 27 - An Audience with the Queen

Chapter 28 - Hung, Drawn and Quartered

Chapter 29 - Armed Police

Chapter 30 - A Packet of Sugar

Chapter 31 - Golden Light

Chapter 32 - A Family Sandwich

Chapter 33 - Silence

Chapter 34 - Zimmer Frame

Postscript

Previously by David Walliams:

Copyright

About the Publisher

Thank yous :

I would like to thank a few people who helped me with this book.

First, the hugely talented Tony Ross for his magical illustrations. Next, Ann-Janine Murtagh, the brilliant head of children’s books at HarperCollins. Nick Lake, my hard-working editor and friend. The fantastic designers James Stevens and Elorine Grant, who worked on the cover and text respectively. The meticulous copy editor Lizzie Ryley. Samantha White, for her brilliant work publicising my books. The lovely Tanya Brennand-Roper who produces the audio versions. And of course my very supportive literary agent Paul Stevens at Independent.

Most of all I would like to thank you kids for reading my books. I am genuinely humbled that you come and meet me at signings, write me letters or send me drawings. I really love telling you stories. I do hope I can dream up some more. Keep reading, it’s good for you!

1 Cabbagy Water

“But Granny is soooo boring,” said Ben. It was a cold Friday evening in November, and as usual he was slumped in the back of his mum and dad’s car. Once again he was on his way to stay the night at his dreaded granny’s house. “All old people are.”

“Don’t talk about your granny like that,” said Dad weakly, his fat stomach pushed up against the steering wheel of the family’s little brown car.

“I hate spending time with her,” protested Ben. “Her TV doesn’t work, all she wants to do is play Scrabble and she stinks of cabbage!”

“In fairness to the boy she does stink of cabbage,” agreed Mum, as she applied some last minute lip-liner.

“You’re not helping, wife,” muttered Dad. “At worst my mother has a very slight odour of boiled vegetables.”

“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Ben. “I love ball-whatsit dancing,” he lied.

“It’s called ballroom dancing,” corrected Dad. “And you don’t love it. You said, and I quote, ‘I would rather eat my own bogeys than watch that rubbish’.”

Now, Ben’s mum and dad loved ballroom dancing. Sometimes Ben thought they loved it more than they loved him. There was a TV show on Saturday evenings that Mum and Dad never missed called Strictly Stars Dancing, where celebrities would be paired with professional ballroom dancers.

In fact, if there was a fire in their house, and Mum could only save either a sparkly gold tap-shoe once worn by Flavio Flavioli (the shiny, tanned dancer and heartbreaker from Italy who appeared on every series of the hit TV show) or her only child, Ben thought she would probably go for the shoe. Tonight, his mum and dad were going to an arena to see Strictly Stars Dancing live on stage.

“I don’t know why you don’t give up on this pipe dream of becoming a plumber, Ben, and think about dancing professionally,” said Mum, her lip-liner scrawling across her cheek as the car bounced over a particularly bumpy speed bump. Mum had a habit of applying make-up in the car, which meant she often arrived somewhere looking like a clown. “Maybe, just maybe, you could end up on Strictly!” added Mum excitedly.

“Because prancing around like that is stupid,” said Ben.

Mum whimpered a little, and reached for a tissue.

“You’re upsetting your mother. Now just be quiet please, Ben, there’s a good boy,” replied Dad firmly, as he turned up the volume on the stereo. Inevitably, a Strictly CD was playing. 50 Golden Greats from the Hit TV Show was emblazoned on the cover. Ben hated the CD, not least because he had heard it a million times. In fact, he had heard it so many times it was like torture.

Ben’s mum worked at the local nail salon, ‘Gail’s Nails’. Because there weren’t many customers, Mum and the other lady who worked there (unsurprisingly called Gail) spent most days doing each other’s nails. Buffing, cleaning, trimming, moisturising, coating, sealing, polishing, filing, lacquering, extending and painting. They were doing things to each other’s nails all day long (unless Flavio Flavioli was on daytime TV). That meant Mum would always come home with extremely long multi-coloured plastic extensions on the end of her fingers.

Ben’s dad, meanwhile, worked as a security guard at the local supermarket. The highlight of his twenty-year career thus far was stopping an old man who had concealed two tubs of margarine down his trousers. Although Dad was now too fat to run after any robbers, he could certainly block their escape. Dad met Mum when he wrongly accused her of shoplifting a bag of crisps, and within a year they were married.

The car swung around the corner into Grey Close, where Granny’s bungalow squatted. It was one of a whole row of sad little homes, mainly inhabited by old people.

The car came to a halt, and Ben slowly turned his head towards the bungalow. Looking expectantly out of the living-room window was Granny. Waiting. Waiting. She was always waiting by the window for him to arrive. How long has she been there? thought Ben. Since last week?

Ben was her only grandchild and, as far as he knew, no one else ever came to visit.

Granny waved and gave Ben a little smile, which his grumpy face just about permitted him to reluctantly return.

“Right, one of us will pick you up tomorrow morning at around eleven,” said Dad, keeping the engine running.

“Can’t you make it ten?”

“Ben!” growled Dad. He released the child lock and Ben grudgingly pushed the door open and stepped out. Ben didn’t need the child lock, of course: he was eleven years old and hardly likely to open the door while the car was driving. He suspected his dad only used it to stop him from diving out of the car when they were on their way to Granny’s house. Clunk went the door behind him, as the engine revved up again.