The Swipers
(Junior Adult Version)
Chris Lane
Copyright 2012 by Chris Lane
Smashwords Edition
Also available in Adult Version: ‘SWIPERS’
Other young adult books available:
Charlie and the Daffodil War
The Fairy Saga
A WARNING: if you are upset by the workings of the human body, especially the slimy and wobbly bits, and by the natural materials that come out of the human body (in any direction; solid, liquid or gas) then you should choose another book, about furry animals or robots.
This book – like real life– is full of rather stinky, sticky things, best left in secret places when nobody is looking, or - in emergencies – left in the hair of the person sitting in front of you on the bus.
PART ONE
WARNING NUMBER 1: you will now meet an old woman. Be polite to her. She is not any more smelly or unusual than any other old lady.
In a moment we have to kill her. This is not my fault. This is a true story; I am just feeding it into the computer.
Stourton-On-The-Water is where this all happens. It is in the County of Oxfordshire.
It should have a funny name.
It could have been Crouching-On-The-Potty, or Standing-On-The-Jelly, or even Piddle-In-The-Puddle.
If I had made up this story I would have given it a funny name.
Just to liven it up a bit.
Stourton-On-The-Water is a dull place. It has nothing funny in it.
At all.
Anywhere.
Not even in the Public Toilets.
If I was making up a ‘funny story’, I would not have set it here.
Here comes the old woman now.
She is riding her bicycle past the Public Toilets.
Do not close your eyes yet - she is not going to die due to the bicycle (or the Public Toilets, which would be funny and this is not that sort of book)
It is a very old bicycle. She is riding it very slowly. I would tell you about her grey hair and bony face and dull clothes, but I know you do not care.
You just want to see what happens to her.
I think I may not like you very much.
I must tell you a few boring facts. I will not ask questions later, but you will need to remember some of these things or, later, you will become confused, possibly even tearful:
She is called Miss Plaice.
She owns a shop in the centre of Stourton-on-the-Water.
She sells antiques.
She will be dead within 3 to 5 minutes, depending how fast you read and whether you stop to pick your nose. (I should not have said that. Now all you want to do is dig something itchy from your nostril. Yes; you know you do.)
Miss Plaice lives in the centre of Stourton, which is a long, thin village in the hills outside Oxford. The village, from the air, is made of stripes.
The first stripe is a stream that flows in the centre.
This is not a stream that has kingfishers and plants; this steam is straight and has neat concrete-and-stone sides. There are little concrete-and-stone bridges over it, badly designed: too small for a car, and too big to pick up and put on your head for a joke.
The next two stripes are either side of the stream and are mostly grass and neat paths, and duck droppings.
Before you ask, I will tell you one thing: the duck droppings are like small, dark-green sausages, perfectly designed for the size of a modern duck’s bottom, and, yes, small enough to pick up and put on your head for a joke. Try it.
The next stripe is the road. Rather small. Tarmac. Some duck droppings.
Beyond the road is one more stripe: a row of shops, a couple of pubs and a posh hotel. An art gallery called Prints and Pots, which sells, er, prints and pots.
All the houses are very old. All made of the same pale yellow stone.
Beyond these stripes are back lanes of small, peasant-style cottages with stone roofs (ideal for little-old-shoe-makers, or tailors with helpful mice or elves, that sort of thing, but in fact filled with fat bald men with totally pointless jobs that are of no benefit to any living creature. These men will suffer later.
(Tee hee.)
Beyond the houses are wooded valley sides and then sky. Yes; some duck droppings in the sky. But not for very long. Perhaps 2 seconds?
I shall now be forced to kill Miss Plaice. I shall have to use normal writing for this. If I don’t do some normal writing every so I forget how to be a proper author.
OK.
Normal writing coming…
Once the door had been unlocked and the small bell had stopped jangling on its spring Miss Plaice filled the kettle and switched it on, turned her cup the normal way up and checked it for spiders.
She hated anything that was not human and not fully adult.
Yes, that may include you – especially if you are a young person.
If you are a very VERY young person, go away. If you haven’t worked it out by now this story is not for little children.
Or nervous people.
Go away.
.
Now the little people have gone, I will continue.
Miss Plaice pulled on her pink gardening gloves and carefully filled the matching pink watering can. This she carried outside and placed on the ground. She then returned inside the shop to fetch a chair.
While she was gone two things happened.
The first involved a duck.
A white one.
Quite big.
It walked a bit closer.
This may not seem worth mentioning but Stourton is really a very dull place. It is so dull that it could be in Holland.
But isn’t.
The second thing took place inside a hanging basket.
It did not involve a duck; it involved a slug.
Quite big, but not as big as a duck (obviously). But, like the duck, it also moved. It moved closer to the edge of the basket.
Now I am not going to suggest that this slug had thoughts or feelings, or before you know it I will have the thing wearing clothes and singing songs about wishing that it had legs and could be part of our world. Which would be very silly. HOWEVER it is possible to suppose that this slug…
What? No – I do not know what its name was.
Please do not interrupt. You distract, and I have now accidentally used a hyphen which is normally only used by writers with limited punctuation skill who write books about wizards. This is not an easy job; you try it.
Interrupt again and you will have to go.
The slug MAY have been looking over the edge of the basket thinking, “What a boring life I have as a slug. I wish something exciting would happen”. Which, if you know anything about stories, is usually said by a character just before something awful happens to them.
Same here.
Miss Plaice stood the chair close to the hanging basket, picked up the watering can, climbed onto the chair and began to…
“Good morning! Take care now!”
Will I never get this story written?
Who was that? Big baggy trousers. Big baggy jacket. Big baggy face.
That’s alright; it’s the Major.
I’m glad you’ve met him now; it will save so much time later.
“Need a hand?”
No she doesn’t. Clear off. (This is Dutch for: ‘Thank you very much’. You pronounce it: ‘klee-a-roff’. Try it at school; your teacher will be impressed with your Dutch words!).
“No, thank you, er ..”
Major! He’s called the Major! For crying out loud, woman; you’ve known him for twenty odd years!
“… Major. Lovely day!”
“Looks like it’s going to be fine again! The weather forecast ...”
This is so dull. Ignore him. Let us move on…
Miss Plaice stood the chair close to the hanging basket, picked up the watering can, and began to trickle water into the basket. As the last dribble soaked in she removed one glove, to test the peat, to see if it was wet or dry.
It was not wet OR dry.
It was squishy.
And slimy.
Confused, she looked closer.
The slug looked back.
“Waaaaa!”
(People in stories shout this when they have a shock. No, I know you wouldn’t, but you’re real.)
Using both hands she pushed as hard as she could at the hanging basket. As plans go, it worked perfectly. The basket, and the slug, was now farther away and less frightening.
You will probably see the weakness in the plan. Do not be smug. I don’t want to be rude, but you don’t have to be Sir Isaac Newton to work this one out.
The basket (and slug) came back.
Gravity.
Yes; thank you, Isaac.
They came back, moving quite fast, to where they started.
Then a bit farther. In fact as far as Miss Plaice’s face.
Then a bit more. To make this possible it had to move her nose.
The hanging basket suddenly stopped.
The slug, possibly a first for its species, started to fly. In a cartoon it would be yelling excitedly; in this true story it just left a trail of slime from its bottom.
(Do not laugh. You would do the same if this happened to you.)
Miss Plaice, proving she was able to do all that a slug can do, and possibly more with the right tablets, and also flew.
They both fell safely on the grass and said ‘Phew, that was close.’
No they didn’t.
If you were only being brave when you said you could cope with really nasty stuff then read that last bit about twenty times then flick the ‘next page’ button quickly several times, until we have finished telling the true story.
Miss Plaice’s legs caught on the back of the chair and she toppled. Her arms waved to catch at anything solid, but the only solid thing around was the path, and her head beat both her arms to it.
Though you couldn’t see it from the outside her head ….. well, how can I put this? …. you know what it’s like when you have a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup, and you hit it with a spoon?
It was very, very much like that in many ways. Except when you hit a boiled egg you don’t see a set of false teeth fly out. If you did you would stop eating eggs.
This horror did not happen to the slug. Do they have heads? Do they even know what a boiled egg is? I think not.
Either way, the slug did not hit the ground. The duck opened its beak and swallowed it. Years of training with crusts of bread finally paid off.
Not content with this alone, the duck opened its beak again and swallowed the false teeth.
The last bit was not true.
It didn’t swallow them.
They wedged in its beak.
Rather confused, the duck waddled back to the stream to see if drinking muddy water that a small boy has just peed in would make things better. (It so rarely does. Don’t even bother trying. Unless you’re from Holland, where it is part of your heritage.)
If you enjoy watching people running about shrieking, police cars wailing and ambulances driving rather fast with blue lights winking, then I suggest you put down this book and go and watch the television. I’m sure there is one not far away. Off you go now; you’ll find it much easier than looking at words and using your brain.
Goodbye.
You are not fooling me. I don’t believe that just because you are still here you are the sort of person who does not watch television. I know very well that you may be stuck in the back of a car on a long journey. (In which case you will soon be sick. Reading in a car is VERY good for causing travel sickness.)
Or you may be waiting in a queue, possibly for an injection. (In which case do as I did at your age and, with great control and timing, wait until you are facing the doctor and then be sick over him.)(Honest! Every word in this book is totally true. Especially that bit.)
But I am not going to write about the scene of the disaster. You have seen it on the television many times and I do not need to waste any time repeating the dreary subject one more time. (Do not throw the book down; it is not paper, and will break. There are genuinely exciting things yet to happen, including death by bottom-gas.)
Complain if you will: I cannot hear it and I do not care.
The only thing I will say about the time after the accident was that the Major thought that he was in charge.
He was not.
And also I will tell you that everyone in the village saw the drama. Except for one person. He is our hero. I am afraid that he is so boring that I cannot bring myself to write a single word about him.
Not even his name.
Instead I will move on to much more interesting people. The Swipers. This is their name, not a description, though in truth it would do that job just as well.
THE SWIPERS
.
(Did you notice that dot there? You have to type them in to leave a space or the elves in the Kindle machine might join all your lines together in one big chunk.)
.
(Another one!)
.
The Swipers are related to Miss Plaice. Or, at least, were until a few minutes ago. Now they do not have anybody who would admit being related to them.
I certainly would not. In fact I have just put on a pair of rubber gloves just to type about them.
Miss Plaice knew about them. In a general sort of way. Mr Swiper was the son of her brother.
To the technically minded, her nephew.
(That brother had died some years ago in a bizarre manner that I may describe to you if you are still here later, if I remember, or put in another book if you leave Positive Feedback for a sequel. Just to be sure, go on Amazon and do the Five-Star Feedback now. I will wait…)
Welcome back.
Thank you.
The nephew had later paired up with a person he called Mrs Swiper. In truth she may not be legally Mrs Swiper. In truth she may not biologically be a person. I am not here to judge.
For whatever reason Mr Swiper found something in her that he liked.
Sometimes, late at night in bed… (No – do not panic, gentle reader – this is not ‘grown-up’ stuff, just humour, carry on safely in all innocence…)
For whatever reason Mr Swiper found something in her that he liked.
Sometimes, late at night in bed he found potato crisps wedged between her rolls of fat. At other lucky times it would be a piece of half-chewed bacon that had slipped from her lips earlier in the week. Only once did he find a whole Cornish-pasty, but then wasted so long looking for some tomato ketchup that his exploration and tickling woke her up and, before he could leap aside, she had swallowed the pasty herself, plus the first fifteen inches of his left arm. He later had a tattoo placed around his arm to mark the highest point reached by her lips.
Before you think I am being unkind to Mrs Swiper, consider the horrible facts about Mr Swiper.
There is nothing wrong with the fact that he does not shave every day, and in fact this is not true. He does shave regularly. He shaves part of his back; this is to prevent the tattoo of his mother looking like a werewolf (which would add to the old rumours).
He does not have a full length beard. He trims the hair of his face with any tool he can, as he, along with many other males, believes that ‘stubble’ makes him appear “manly and rugged”.
Yes, just like mould on a pile of dried dog pooh.
Any more detail would only serve to spoil whatever meal you are looking forward to next. I will move one.
I know you would like to ask questions.
No, they do not have any form of job.
Yes, they have three children (Roy, Rea and Roxy).
What? I’m not sure; I think Mr Swiper is called Reg and Mrs is called Roo.
Yes; I know. That means they are all R. Swipers. I did work that out for myself, thank you. I make no comment. I didn’t make this up and I certainly DO NOT tell rude jokes!
The Swipers were very happy to find out they now owned an antique shop and a cottage in Stourton-On-The-Water.
They should have sold it.
Taken the money.
Stayed out of this book.
Saved a lot of misery, death and destruction.
.
But they didn’t.
I shall now take off my rubber gloves.
For the moment.
Very boring character approaching.
I know an author is supposed to leave you with a ‘cliff-hanger’ before you click the little button on the side of this machine (or whatever, if using a PC or an iPAD) but I already feel that we are friends so I can trust you to get through the dull bits.
If I had made this up I would put the exciting bit with the bucket of cow-pooh here just to keep you interested, but this is 100% truth. Thank you for your patience.
JAMES
WARNING NUMBER 2: It is now necessary to kill very cute pet animals in a manner so awful that you will probably find that the pages describing this have been deleted after complaints by Animal Rights people. If this is the case, do not be alarmed, as it is not vital to the story but just here to show the true nature of the Swipers.
WARNING NUMBER 3: I am also going to talk in some length about our hero. As I have said before, he is perhaps the most boring person to be written in any book, but, as this is a true story what can I do to change the facts?
Do you want me to lie to you?
First, let me tell you that he is called James, is about your age and he has an older sister, Lucy plus a mother and a father. His father does something in woodlands. (No, not like a bear. Be serious) He does not appear in the story more than a passing mention as he is even duller than James and is, luckily, always away somewhere doing something woody.
James’ mother is a volunteer and does GOOD DEEDS.
They live in a house.
It has a garden.
There is a cat.
This is so BORING! No wonder the boy has problems!
As you know, James is about the same age as you and may even look a bit like you. (Unless you are very old, possibly a hostage in a house with nothing but this to read. Or a girl. Nothing wrong with that.)
You will notice I stopped doing normal writing and this is just me talking to you again, which is probably rude as we have not been introduced. An English teacher would probably call this “The Author’s Voice” which it certainly is not, as my voice is much deeper yet rather charming.
Normal writing starts again…….. NOW!
.
The day the Swipers came to the village started like any other, with cereal and fruit.
James sat with his elbows not on the table, carefully chewing the third of the day’s seven units of fruit and vegetables, sipping the special yoghurt drink that strengthens the workings of your stomach by having live bacteria in it.
The Swipers’ drinks also have live bacteria in them (though not on purpose). There are often other live things in their food and drink, though these have eyes and may scream as they are swallowed.
While he chewed he watched his mother packing his lunch and his neatly written homework into his school bag. He watched his father sorting the recycling into containers.
He watched his sister slowly scrolling her latest electronic device through totally vital information about her friends, sharing words of wisdom: That minger is so ded. LOL.
He watched the cat (long hair, yellow fangs) walk along the work surface and calmly lick the open butter. It then coughed. Something shiny spat out onto the butter but was lost in the long hairs that had now stuck in its yellow surface (that is the butter – if your cat has a smooth yellow surface it has a terrible skin infection).
Happy, the cat strolled back, rubbed its bottom on the tea-towel, then jumped down and strolled off for more excitement.
No, I do not like cats.
James watched his mother spreading the butter/cat-hair in his sister’s sandwiches.
“What are you smiling at?” said Lucy slowly, as always alert to any hint of ‘dissing’.
(Nope, no idea what ‘dissing’ is either.)
“Nothing. Not smiling at nothing.”
“Hnn.”
“Calm down, you two,” smiled mother. “Today’s the day!” She put the sandwiches in a plastic container. “New people arriving! Big welcoming party!”
“New people?” groaned Lucy; those two words were filled with hate toward anybody ‘from outside’ coupled with hope that it included a young male person of agreeable face, body and car-ownership. Ideally Justin Bieber.
“Did you sort out the taxi to collect them from the station?”
“Taxi would be too small. Lots of luggage. Five of them. The Major is going to collect them in his estate car.”
“The Major?! Very decent of him!”
“Yeah; I think it’s just his way of saying sorry to the village. You know; for the way he acted when Miss P. died.”
(In fact he screamed: “Get out of my way, you stupid old trout; this is a public footpath!” He may then have wheeled his bike over her lifeless body. It depends who you ask.)
James already knew about this. Everyone had seen it. Except him. Even the little kids at the Primary School had seen it. They had explained all about the Major when James was passing the playground the next lunchtime.
“She was lying there and the Major pushed his bike straight over her neck, he did!” explained Darren.
Another, more excitable, classmate, Wayne, reported: “Rode his bike straight over her – killed her stone dead!”
“Snapped all her bones with a terrible crunching sound!” said Miss Dingle, their teacher.
.