Wilf the Mighty Worrier--Saves the World Read online

  “Well, not long from now, all the world leaders are meeting in London to practice shaking hands with one another. While they are all distracted, I shall destroy the world with my Big Gun Thingy!”

  “How will you get to London?” asked Wilf, always practical.

  “I’m glad you asked me that,” said Alan proudly. “I am building a most magnificent most marvelous most magical mechanical flying machine. Let me show you . . .”

  But before Alan could show Wilf his new invention, they were interrupted by Kevin Phillips rushing into the room and skidding across the shiny floor.

  “Don’t worry, I have apprehended the intruders,” said Alan to Kevin.

  Kevin approached Wilf and sniffed.

  “It’s the girl’s diaper. Don’t worry. They will both soon be dead,” said Alan.

  Kevin growled menacingly at Wilf, then turned on his heels and sat down in the comfy swivel chair at the Missile Launch Control Command Center Console.

  Alan suddenly remembered his manners.

  “Wilf, you’ve met Kevin Phillips, haven’t you? He’s my right-hand man. And mastermind of my evil plans.”

  “He’s a dog,” said Wilf.

  Wilf was not one to mince around the bush.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Alan.

  “He’s a dog,” repeated Wilf, pointing at Kevin Phillips.

  Kevin barked and swiveled a couple of times on his comfy swivel chair and then sat down again. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his big tail wagged happily, occasionally bashing against a lever and setting a missile off.

  “He’s a big shaggy dog,” said Wilf. “Normally I’m scared of dogs,” he continued, “because I think they might push me out of the window while I’m asleep. But Kevin doesn’t seem like that kind of dog.”

  Kevin’s ears flattened. And then he suddenly had an urgent tickle.

  “Shhhh!” said Alan, very embarrassed. “He doesn’t know he’s a dog. He thinks he’s one of us.”

  “Sorry,” said Wilf.

  “Besides, is it fair that a dog shouldn’t have the same rights as a human? The right to go to school and to the movies and go bowling and have a job. And the right to destroy the world?”

  “Bowling could be difficult,” said Wilf.

  “OK, forget the bowling,” said Alan. “But the other stuff.”

  “Well, I suppose . . .” said Wilf.

  “You see!” said Alan.

  Kevin barked excitedly and jumped up onto the control panel, setting off another half-dozen missiles.

  “Anyway,” said Alan. “No time to chat. I must get on with killing you and your smelly sister. Dungeon or shark tank?”

  “The thing is,” said Wilf, feeling a bit trembly, “I’m not very good with dark places. Or damp places. Damp makes me cough.”

  “Shark tank then.”

  “The problem is,” explained Wilf, trying not to let his knees go the wrong way, “I’m not very good with water. Or sharks.”

  “Dungeon then,” said Alan.

  Alan led Wilf and Dot down some steep slimy stairs to a small dark dungeon. It was as cold as a rain boot down there. There were no sharks, but I bet there were spiders. And probably snails. And lots of things that brushed against your face and made you go yarhargar​hahhhhhherggggggggg​ggaaaa. And also another nice photo of a sunset.

  Wilf was scared. He really, really didn’t like those long creepy-crawlies with zillions of legs. Or those other ones with waggly wavy feeler things instead of eyes. And he suspected the dungeon was full of wiggly legs and waggly wavers. He didn’t mind Stuart the woodlouse, because Stuart didn’t have waggly wavers and he had a reasonable number of legs. Plus he was always kind and polite.

  “Is there a third option?” Wilf asked Alan, sidling toward the doorway. “Like dungeon, shark tank, OR trip to the zoo?”

  “No,” said Alan. He stepped in front of Wilf and folded his arms, looking as serious and determined as a chest of drawers.

  “Right. Well. Hang on then,” said Wilf. “I just need to do something.”

  He got out his pencil and his notebook and drew the thing that was worrying him: a loooooong creepy-crawly.

  Alan sighed and tapped his foot impatiently.

  Wilf considered the WORST-CASE SCENARIO. What could be worse than a loooooong creepy-crawly?

  Wilf was really scared of wigs. And terrified of roller skates. A loooooong creepy-crawly wearing a wig on roller skates?

  Wilf drew just that.

  Wilf needed a plan to escape the horror of the dungeon.

  He thought. And he thought and he thought.

  “Come on, come on,” said Alan, jangling his dungeon keys.

  “If you’re going to leave someone to die, I believe it’s traditional to offer them a last meal,” Wilf said finally.

  “I’ve been slaving away all day trying to get this world destroyed and now you expect me to cook you dinner as well?” said Alan.

  “It’s only polite,” said Wilf quietly.

  “All right, all right,” said Alan angrily. “What do you want?”

  “A jar of treacle,” said Wilf. “And some chopsticks to eat it with.”

  “What?” said Alan.

  “You’re allowed to ask for whatever you like,” explained Wilf. “Those are the rules.”

  Alan tutted and sighed and said, “It will ruin your teeth,” but he trotted off and brought back a jar of treacle and some chopsticks.

  “Good-bye forever,” he said, pushing Wilf and Dot inside the dungeon.

  Kevin Phillips licked Wilf’s ear and skidded around on his bottom a bit and then they closed the big door to the dungeon with a crrrrrrreeeeeeooooonnnnkkkk and turned the key with a shlonk.

  Wilf and Dot were all alone. Apart from the spiders. And the snails. And those funny long creepy-crawlies with zillions of legs. And those other ones with waggly wavy things coming out of their heads. So, in fact, they weren’t alone at all. But in many ways, Wilf and Dot rather wished they were.

  It was very dark. And the damp was making Wilf cough. And they were going to die. And then the world was going to end. Or possibly the other way around.

  Wilf was as sorry as a sausage. Sorry he’d ever laid eyes on Alan. Sorry he’d ever snuck into the evil lair. And very sorry he’d not worn thicker socks because his feet were like blocks of ice.

  But he had a plan. A creepy-crawly plan. You see, he wasn’t really going to eat the treacle with chopsticks. If any wig-wearing creepy-crawly rolled toward him on roller skates, he was going to tip the treacle in front of it so that the roller skates got stuck. Then he was going to use the chopsticks to remove the wig. Simple.

  Wilf took out the leaflet on “HOW TO STOP WORRYING” from his pocket.

  NUMBER SIX said:

  6) It can be helpful to rate your fear on a scale of one to ten.

  Wilf thought. If he had to rate his fear he would say it was a

  number. Like about a

  A bit like the number of legs those long creepy-crawlies have. Horrid, wiggly, waggly legs. Billions of them. Aaargh.

  Rating his fear was just making Wilf feel worse. And reminding him of the wiggly waggly legs. And also reminding him that he was also scared of math.

  What would make Wilf feel better would be if he could get out of the dungeon and away from the weird wig-wearing waggly pests skating around in the dark.

  Wilf had a great big old worry. Then he had a great big old think. And he thought and thought until his brain was exhausted. And then he had an idea.

  He opened his jar of treacle and he poured it over his drawing.

  He slid the paper under the door of the dungeon.

  Then he took a chopstick and poked it through the keyhole, knocking the key out of the other side of the door. It dropped with a splat onto the treacle-covered paper—and it immediately stuck. Wilf pulled the paper back under the door and retrieved the key.

  He gave the key to Dot and she licked it clean in a few seconds. Wilf put it
into the lock, turned the key with a schlonk—and then with two bounds they were free!

  Wilf tiptoed past the shark tank. He was going to stop that evil lunatic (and his right-hand dog). And he was going to save the world. Then, and only then, would he change into a pair of thicker socks.

  But just as he was creeping slowly and silently toward the door leading out of the evil lair, he heard a loud badoinking sound. Suddenly the door flew open and Mark III came galumphing in. He threw himself onto the comfy swivel chair and ate a loaf of bread. Wilf hid behind a large sculpture of a small person. Or it might have been a small sculpture of a very tall person. It was hard to tell.

  Alan beamed at the robot.

  “At last!” he said. “Where have you been?”

  “Out,” said the robot.

  “I need you to do something for me. I need you to invade Russia,” said Alan grandly, clasping his fist and holding it in the air. It was a new thing that he thought made him look more evil.

  “Yeah, I’m not really in the mood for invading Russia,” croaked Mark III.

  “I don’t care whether you’re in the mood,” said Alan. “I’m asking you to do it, so I want you to do it.”

  “But I’m busy,” said the robot.

  “Busy?” said Alan. “Doing what? Staring out of the window?”

  “Yeah. And also, might meet up with some friends later.”

  “There aren’t even any windows in here! And you can meet up with your friends once you’ve invaded Russia,” said Alan.

  “Why me? I don’t even know where Russia is!”

  “Don’t know where Russia is?!” said Alan, hopping from foot to foot with rage. “I spent a billion pounds on you! I spent seven years inputting information. You do know where Russia is! It’s on your hard drive!”

  “Is it . . . abroad?” asked Mark III.

  “Is it abroad?” raged Alan, his voice going all squeaky. “Is it abroad? Of course it’s abroad! Please tell me you knew it was abroad? All those years! All that money! Why did I bother?”

  Alan pounded his tiny fists on his desk and sobbed. This didn’t make him look more evil, it just made him look a bit sad. Wilf leaned out from behind the statue and passed him a tissue. Not a clean one—it was the one that he had just used to wipe Dot’s face—but even so.

  As Alan blew his nose, Mark III ambled out of the evil lair just as Kevin Phillips was on his way in.

  Kevin looked from Alan to Mark III and then back to Alan again.

  “Don’t say it,” said Alan.

  Kevin said nothing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Alan. “But he’s my Mark III. My one and only Mark III.”

  Kevin sighed.

  “I know, I know,” said Alan. “But one day he’ll come around.”

  Kevin didn’t look convinced.

  “He will!” said Alan. “And one day he’ll take over from me and he’ll need a right-hand man. He’ll need you. You’re the best right-hand man an evil lunatic could have.”

  Alan and Kevin hugged each other and Alan cried a bit more and Wilf pretended he was very interested in the curtains because he felt he shouldn’t be there.

  And then he remembered he really SHOULDN’T be there. They’d captured him and he was actually supposed to be escaping right now as a matter of fact thank you very much!

  Wilf scooped up Dot into his arms and made his way back to the elevator without making a single sound.

  Well, except for the sound of Dot saying, “Bye-bye, bye-bye, weevil woonatic,” about eighteen times. Luckily Alan and Kevin were too busy hugging and crying and patting each other to notice.

  Wilf was back under his blanket. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he had discovered next door. Alan had a most magnificent most marvelous most magical mechanical flying machine. And a Big Gun Thingy. And he was going to use one to get to London and the other to destroy the world. Meep!

  Wilf tried to take his mind off it all by whistling, but there was too much noise outside. He tried knitting, but knitting involved counting and there was too much noise outside.

  He tried just lying there and thinking about happy things, like gerbils dressed up as famous historical figures—but there was too much noise outside. Wilf decided to get up and see what all the noise was.

  Looking out of the landing window, Wilf could see Alan in his garden, working on his most magnificent most marvelous most magical mechanical flying machine. He couldn’t quite see what it looked like, because it was covered by a sheet and surrounded by a fence.

  Alan was hammering very loudly on nails and every so often his thumb. Occasionally Alan would drop his hammer and Kevin Phillips would pick it up and run and hide it behind an old plant pot and then bark excitedly. And Alan would have to climb down his ladder to fetch it.

  Wilf did a big old worry, and his stomach tried to do a somersault but it tripped and just did a sort of flobberdy splat, and his knees tried to go the wrong way—because Wilf knew that once Alan finished his most magnificent most marvelous most magical mechanical flying machine he would fly to London and then he would destroy the world. And that could only be a bad thing.

  Wilf tiptoed out into the garden. If he could just get to the flying machine . . .

  “Right,” said Alan to Kevin, “let’s lock the fence and make sure nobody can get to the flying machine.”

  Drat, thought Wilf. But if he could just find a way of unlocking the fence . . .

  “Then we must get some lions to guard the fence so that nobody can unlock it,” continued Alan.

  Double drat, thought Wilf.

  “But first,” said Alan grandly, “I am going to carry out phase one of my evil plan. The thing is, Kevin, there’s only one world. So you only get to destroy it once. And I don’t want to make a mess of it and end up looking silly. So in order to practice destroying the world, I am going to test out my Big Gun Thingy on a small patch of world—namely a tiny island called Wyland Island.”

  Wilf gasped. Wyland Island? That was where his auntie lived and where he and Dot went on school vacations. He couldn’t let anything happen to Wyland Island! It was only the best place ever, with a really whizzy slide and very diggy sand and an ice cream van that sold blue ice cream.

  Not only that, Wyland Island was a very important historical island. It was invaded by people from the north in the eighteen hundreds and not long afterward was invaded by people from the south.

  After a long and bloody battle that lasted well over twenty minutes, the two peoples had come to a truce and lived peacefully side by side. But they had insisted on having all the signs on the island in their own language. Just to be difficult.

  Why on earth would anyone choose to destroy Wyland Island? wondered Wilf.

  “You are probably wondering why I have chosen to destroy Wyland Island,” said Alan to Kevin.

  To be honest, Kevin looked more like he was wondering why his ear wouldn’t stop tickling. But Alan continued nevertheless.

  “I chose Wyland Island because it is small, it is nearby, and it has a very good knickknack shop near where you get off the ferry,” said Alan.

  This was all true. Wilf could not fault him on his reasoning.

  “I am not going to take you with me, Kevin, because swishy tails and small knickknack shops are not a good combination,” said Alan. “So you stay here. Stay. Sit. Stay. Kevin, stay. I said stay. Kevin!”

  But Kevin had gone to bark at a tree for half an hour, because he thought he might have seen a squirrel.

  Alan sighed, picked up his Big Gun Thingy and set off for Wyland Island on his own.

  But he wasn’t on his own, was he?

  Because Wilf, stopping only to brush his teeth, comb his hair, pop Stuart into his pocket, and put Dot in her stroller, was right behind him.

  Wilf chased silently after Alan. Down the street, up the road, down the lane, up the alley—straight to the port.

  Oh no! The port! The port meant boats. And boats meant sea. And sea meant that
anxious wobbly feeling in Wilf’s tummy. What if there were sea monsters? What if there was a giant squid? Or even a normal-size squid? Or a jellyfish? Or a shrimp—they had waggly things and scary little eyes. Wilf wanted to tiptoe right home again. No one need ever know he’d been there. But he would know.

  Wilf got out his pencil and notebook and drew what he was worried about.

  A sea monster sinking the ferry.

  And then he drew the WORST-CASE SCENARIO.

  A sea monster with a twirly mustache sinking the ferry and then eating Wilf and Dot. Wilf was scared of twirly mustaches. And of being eaten.

  Wilf had a great big old worry. Then he had a great big old think. And he thought and thought until his brain was tired.

  He looked at Dot and she smiled back, a snotty, crusty smile. And she sneezed.

  And then it hit him—not the snot, the idea.

  When Wilf and Dot were at home and Dot was crawling toward Wilf and Wilf was worried she was going to snot on his knees, he would throw a raisin to distract her.

  So if sea monsters worked the same way as Dot, he just needed to do a bigger version of the raisin trick.

  Wilf rushed to the shop and bought two pairs of goggles (in case the ferry was sunk by a sea monster), a small pair of scissors (for mustache snipping), and a large Christmas pudding, because it looked like a great big ball of raisins.

  Delicious.

  Wilf was sure the sea monster would like it.

  IT WAS A GOOD PLAN.

  IT WAS A GREAT PLAN.

  I’VE GOT NOTHING AGAINST THE PLAN.

  But while Wilf was shopping, Alan bought the very last ticket for the twelve o’clock ferry. Drat. What was Wilf going to do now? The next ferry wasn’t for three hours.