Night of the Living Dead Served

"I don't think I'll be back too late," the Captain said. He straightened his cap and patted his pockets. "Keys; wallet; phone. That's me set. Now, where did I leave my pipe?"

Tintin looked up from what he was doing. "It's on the table next to your chair."

The Captain couldn't help shaking his head. The teenager cut a comical figure. He was sitting in the middle of the long couch, his shirt slightly dishevelled and with both his hands in the air, as though he were sitting at gunpoint. On his left hand, worn like a glove, was a very old sock. It had a hole in the big toe and a myriad of other, smaller holes dotted about, which looked as though they had been made by small, very sharp teeth.

It was also slightly damp, as though it had been chewed.

The reason for the poor condition of the unfortunate sock was sitting on the sofa beside Tintin. In his native language he was called Glaxkar the White: Eater of the Chickens, Destroyer of the Socks and Defiler of the Rose Bush, but the stupid humans insisted on calling him Snowy.

"You don't half torment that dog sometimes," the Captain said, amused.

"I'm not tormenting him," Tintin declared. "We're having fun!" His voice changed to a sugary, higher-pitched tone. "We're having fun, Snowy, aren't we? Yes! We're having fun! Sit down. Siiiiit! Good boy! I just want to pet you."

Snowy's ears went back. He watched, his butt hovering over the sofa cushion as he pretended to sit, his whole body shaking with excitement, as Tintin's hand – and the sock – slowly moved towards him. He was so focused, so concentrated on the sock, that the expression on his face was comical. He looked almost human. If you looked up the word 'concentration' in the dictionary, the Captain thought, you'd just see a picture of Snowy's face right now.

The sock reached Snowy's head. The dog's tail started to wag stiffly. The sock touched Snowy's head. Glaxkar the White braced himself, his muscles bunching up in preparation.

Tintin began to pet him briskly, vigorously rubbing the dog's soft, curly white fur. With a snarl, Snowy lunged, wrapping his front paws around Tintin's arm as he worried at the sock. He chomped rather than chewed, knowing that a very real human hand was inside the sock. He gummed the sock furiously until his tooth hooked on a part of the wool and he was able to get a better hold of the material.

"What are ya going to do?" Tintin asked suddenly. He stopped moving his hand and held it out steadily. "Now: you've caught it. What are you gonna do?"

Snowy settled down and sniffed at the sock before giving it a lick or two. Then he sat back and looked at Tintin expectantly, waiting for the game to continue. The Captain shook his head again – they're both as bad as each other – and retrieved his pipe. "Right, I'm gone. Ring me if there's a problem."

"Yup." Tintin had taken the sock off his hand and held one end of it tightly in his fist. Snowy was clinging to the other end, growling and tugging at it. "Have a good time."

"Oh, I will," the Captain promised. "Be good. And if you can't be good, be good at it."

He left then. He was meeting an old friend in Brussels. They were going to dinner so they could catch up with one another. Nestor was at his weekly bingo game in the village, with Professor Calculus.

Snowy shook his head furiously from side to side, worrying the sock viciously, and it was finally wrenched from Tintin's hand. Before he could stop Snowy, the dog had jumped away, his paws clattering against the hardwood floor as he tore from the room with his hard-won prize. Tintin sighed and let him go: he'd be back.

He always came back for more.

x

It was 9:30pm and Tintin was bored. There was nothing on TV and he had nothing to read. Well, actually he did have something to read, but he only had a few chapters left of that book and he wanted to save that for when he was in bed. He'd finish it before going to sleep. Another exciting Friday night for me, he thought to himself wryly. He flicked through the channels again and half-heartedly wished that something interesting would happen. Like a bunch of gangsters suddenly descending on the house and he'd have to escape using only his wits and his very sleepy dog.

Anything to break the monotony.

Beside him, Snowy raised his head and looked around sleepily, blinking his eyes. He looked mournfully up at Tintin. Tintin returned the look. "What's wrong?"

Snowy blinked twice and put his head down with a sigh. A second later the reason for his sadness hit Tintin's nostrils. "Oh! God! Snowy! Did you fart? Ugh, that's awful." Snowy wagged his tail and looked back up. He looked smug, Tintin thought. It was probably the way the light hit his curls, or how his fur was arranged around his mouth, but there was a definite smug smile on his little doggy lips. "Rotten dog. What am I feeding you that smells so bad? Yuck. Hmm. I'm hungry. Do you want food, Snowy?"

Snowy cocked his head to the side. He always looked interested when Tintin talked to him. "Will we go and get something to eat?" Tintin asked. Snowy's head went to the other side. Tintin booped him gently on the nose. "Let's get you something to eat."

x

Snowy was easy to feed: he had a half a tin of Chum already opened, and he chomped on it willingly. Tintin was harder to feed. He stood in front of the big fridge that Nestor kept well stocked and hummed and hawed to himself. He was half-heartedly toying with the idea of making some chilli when the doorbell rang. It sounded loudly in the kitchen, like in all working mansions, and jerked him out of his reverie.

Humming to himself, he jogged along the corridor and opened the front door. There was a man in motorcycle leathers on the doorstep, his helmet on and his sleek, blue and red motorcycle purring on the gravel below. He held a black padded bag – long and wide – in his arms and he was looking at Tintin through the opened visor of his helmet. "Meat feast?" he said.

"What?" Tintin replied, puzzled.

"Got a delivery for a Mr Tintin at Marlinspike Hall," the man said. "Twelve inch Meat Feast pizza."

"I didn't order a pizza," Tintin said with a frown.

"Pull the other one."

"I didn't order it!"

The man glared at him and shook his head. "Waste of my bloody time. Who d'you think has to pay for this?"

"Wait, hang on," Tintin said quickly as the man turned on his heel. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and offered the man a €20 note. "I'll take it anyway. Keep the change." That's dinner sorted out, he thought to himself as he took possession of the pizza.

He shut the door behind him and opened the pizza box. The smell wafted out and his stomach growled. "Mmm!" he said happily. He'd enjoy this. He pottered around for a few minutes more, fetching a plate and getting himself a cup of tea to drink with it. When he was just sitting down to eat – with Snowy hovering anxiously nearby, sniffing the air and licking his lips – the doorbell went again. With a soft sigh of impatience, Tintin went to answer it.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," said the woman outside. She was short and brisk, and at the bottom of the steps a blue car with the artwork for a local Chinese restaurant painted on the side idled. The woman held out a paper bag to him. "€25, please."

"What?" Tintin stared at her. His brain had just gone blank.

"This is Marlinspike hall, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes…"

"And are you Mr Tintin?"

"Uh, yes…"

"Well, here's your food. That'll be €25 please."

"I didn't order any food," he explained. "I'm sorry, but I think someone's playing a prank on you. Or me," he realised. "I've just had a pizza delivered here too."

"I don't care," the woman said. "What you eat is none of my business. But you ordered a Chinese from me and here it is. You owe me €25."

"I didn't order it!" Tintin said.

"Well somebody ordered it, and they ordered it for you. I want my money."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Tintin pulled more money from his wallet and shoved it at her. He took the bag and waited impatiently while she counted his change out. "Have a nice evening," she said sweetly. He scowled as he shut the door.

"What am I going to do with this?" he wondered aloud. He wandered back into the sitting room in a daze. By now, with such temptation left under his nose, Snowy had already started eating the pizza. He had jumped up onto the coffee table and was in the process of hoovering the meaty toppings into his mouth. He looked up guilty as Tintin entered, but it still took a few extra seconds before he stopped eating.

"Well, that solves that one!" Tintin exclaimed, bemused. "Enjoy your pizza, Snowy." He opened the paper bag and examined what was inside. Duck hoisin. A tray of soft, fluffy white rice. A large tub of curry sauce. A small side-dish of prawns wrapped in crispy pancakes. A bag of popadoms.

It was his usual: it was everything he usually ordered from the take-away in the village.

He paused and thought about this, a horrible thought hitting him. "Snowy?" he asked. The dog looked up and wagged his tail. He had melted cheese and tomato sauce around his mouth. He looked fine, Tintin had to admit. If someone was trying to knock Tintin out, or poison him, then the pizza hadn't been touched. Snowy had eaten all of the toppings and was making good headway with the sauce and cheese. Even the crusts had been chewed.

So who was sending Tintin's favourite pizza and take-away food to the house? And why?

The doorbell rang again. Tintin approached it cautiously. "Who is it?" he called, keeping the door closed.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," a man's voice called back.

Frowning and starting to feel uneasy, Tintin looked through the peephole, but all he could see was a flash of green and other very bright colours. He opened the door a crack, peered out, and then opened the door wide in shock. "What on earth?" he cried. The man was holding an arm-load of flowers. Tintin could see his legs and his arms around the stem of the huge bunch, but every other part of him was hidden behind the blooms and trailing wisps of Baby's Breath.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," the man said again.

"I can see that! But I didn't order any flowers!"

"They're for you." The man simply shoved them into Tintin's arms and backed away. Tintin gasped under their weight and tried to put them down. He couldn't even see from behind them!

"I can't pay for these!" he said helplessly. "They must have cost a fortune! I don't have that sort of cash on me."

"They're paid for," the man said over his shoulder as he went down the steps to his car. "There's a card on them. I tell you what, son, someone must like you an awful lot!"

Mouth open in shock and confusion, Tintin dropped to his knees and rummaged among the blooms and stems until he found the small white envelope. He opened it and pulled out the card – a simple one with a picture of a kitten holding a rose in it's mouth – and read the inscription.

'My dearest Tintin; you have been served. Yours – A. Haddock.'

"Oh, you didn't," Tintin said faintly. He was kneeling there, stunned, when the sound of another approaching vehicle made him look up. A small van with the logo for Buns-A-Poppin', the village bakery, was driving up the long driveway. The van beeped at him and he could see someone waving at him. When the van stopped, he could see it was Mrs Vandenbosch herself. One of her burly sons sat in the passenger seat beside her.

As soon as the car was stopped she got out. Tintin wandered down to her, his head reeling. "Congratulations!" she said delightedly. "I'm so pleased for you! Or is the master of the house?"

"What?" he asked. He was trying to figure out what else the Captain could have ordered.

"Who does the wedding cake belong to?" Mrs Vandenbosch asked. She was an older woman with full, grey hair and thin-rimmed glasses. She reminded Tintin of a cartoon grandmother. She would have looked equally at home with a shawl and a set of knitting needles as behind the till of Buns-A-Poppin'. Although she rarely baked herself any more – the business had already been handed down to one of her sons – she was a master baker, and she would have personally made a wedding cake that was destined for such a place as Marlinspike Hall.

Tintin started laughing. He couldn't help himself. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Vandenbosch," he said. He was starting to blush with embarrassment. "There's no wedding. We don't need a wedding cake."

"What? Don't be silly! You ordered a wedding cake!"

"No, I didn't."

Mrs Vandenbosch frowned. "But my niece took the order. It's already paid for." A look of horror crossed her face. "She didn't make a mistake, did she? My niece?"

Tintin shook his head. "I suspect she didn't. I think someone's playing a trick on me. In fact, I'm sure they are."

"Someone going to help me here?" Mrs Vandenbosch's son had opened the back of the van and was trying to take the cake out.

"It'll have to go back," Tintin said apologetically.

"Oh no it wont." Mrs Vandenbosch's lips tightened. "There's nothing wrong with my cakes! I wont take it back."

"But what am I supposed to do with it!"

"What am I supposed to do with it? It's a wedding cake!"

"But I don't want it!"

"Are you shouting at my mother, kid?"

"No! No. I'm being very calm. I don't want your wedding cake. Put that back in."

"Take it out, Frank! He ordered the cake, let him have it."

"I didn't order it! I don't want it!"

"Hey! You lower your voice when you're talking to my mother!"

"Oh good grief!" Tintin rolled his eyes. "Now what's going on?"

A small red Mini was hurtling down the drive. It whizzed past them and skidded to a halt. Suddenly, the doors flew open and six clowns tumbled out, shouting and honking horns. "Happy birthday!" one of them roared, dousing Tintin with a bucket of sparkling confetti. Tintin put his head in his hands and groaned.

x

The clowns were arguing with the men who were trying to set up the bouncy castle by the time the paranormal investigators showed up. They were adamant that they had received a phone call two weeks ago – two weeks ago! How long had the Captain been planning this for? – telling them that they had permission to hold an investigation in the house for the night. They had express permission to access every room in the house. They were to set up a Ouija board in the dining room and hold a séance in Tintin's bedroom, which they had been told was the epicentre of the haunting. When Tintin took umbrage at this, and tried to explain that there was no haunting, one of the paranormal investigators took Mrs Vandenbosch's side of the argument and helped her son carry the cake up to the house. Tintin looked at the chaos around him, and just gave up. With a shrug, he followed Mrs Vandenbosch into the house, and wondered if he could eat a full wedding cake by himself.

x

Captain Chester laughed and smoothed his moustache. "So what are you going to send him next?"

"A stripper," the Captain declared. He took out his phone and grinned wickedly. "A male stripper."

Happy Bank Holiday Weekend, everyone!