Demon Dentist - David Walliams

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      Alfie ran out of the dental surgery as fast as his little legs would carry him. That fateful afternoon the boy vowed that he would never ever go to the dentist’s again. To this day he never had. Appointments had come and appointments had gone. Alfie had missed every single one. Over the years there had been a sackful of reminder letters from the dentist, but Alfie had hidden them all from his dad.

      Alfie’s was a family of two. Just him and his father. The boy’s mother had died giving birth to him. He had never known her. Sometimes he felt sad, as if he missed his mother, but then he would tell himself, how could he miss someone he had never met?

      To hide the appointment letters from the dentist, the boy would silently drag a stool across the kitchen floor. Alfie was short for his age. He was, in fact, the second shortest kid at his school. So he would have to balance on his tiptoes on the stool to reach the top of the larder where he would hide the letters. There must have been a hundred letters buried up there by now, and Alfie knew his father couldn’t reach them. That’s because for many years Dad had been unwell, and had of late become confined to a wheelchair.

      Before ill health forced him out of work, Dad was a coal miner. A great big bear of a man, he had loved working down the pit and providing for his beloved son. However, all those years he spent down the mine took a terrible toll on his lungs. Dad was a proud man, and didn’t let on about his illness for many years. He worked harder and harder to dig more and more coal, even taking on extra shifts to help make ends meet. Meanwhile his breathing became shallower and shallower, until one afternoon he collapsed at the coalface. When Dad finally came round at the hospital the doctors told him he could never go down a mine again. Just one more lungful of coal dust could finish him off for good. As the years passed Dad’s breathing worsened. Getting another job became impossible, and even everyday tasks, something as simple as tying a shoelace, grew to be a struggle. Soon Dad could only get around in a wheelchair.

      With no mum or brothers or sisters, Alfie had to care for his father alone. Besides having to go to school and do his homework, the boy would do all the shopping, all the cleaning, cook all the meals, and do all the washing up. Alfie never complained though. He loved his dad with all his heart.

      Dad’s body may have been broken, but his spirit wasn’t. He had a great gift for telling stories. “Listen, pup…” he would begin.

      Dad would often call his son that, which Alfie loved. The image it conjured up of a big soppy dog and a little puppy snuggling up together always made the boy feel safe and warm inside.

      “Listen, pup…” Dad would say. “All you have to do is close your eyes, and believe…”

      From their little bungalow Dad would take his son on all sorts of thrilling adventures. They would ride on magic carpets, dive under the oceans, even drive stakes through the hearts of vampires.

      It was a multicoloured world of make-believe, a million miles away from their black-and-white existence.

      “Take me to the haunted house again, Daddy!” the boy would beg.

      “Perhaps today, my pup, we will take a journey to the old haunted castle…!” Dad would tease.

      “Please, please, please…” Alfie would say. Father and son would close their eyes and meet in their daydreams. Together they:

      • Went out fishing for the day in Scotland and caught the Loch Ness Monster.

      • Climbed the Himalayan Mountains and came face to face with the Abominable Snowman.

      • Slew a huge fire-breathing dragon.

      • Hid aboard a pirate ship and were forced to walk the plank as stowaways, only to be saved by beautiful mermaids.

      • Rubbed a magic lamp and met a genie who gave them three wishes each, although Dad gave all his wishes to his son.

      • Rode on the back of Pegasus, the winged horse from Greek mythology.

      • Climbed up a stalk to Giant Land and met an extremely hungry Cyclops whose perfect idea of a between-meals snack was a scrawny little twelve-year-old boy, so Dad had to save him.

      • Became the first ever father and son team to successfully land on the moon in a home-made rocket.

      • Were chased across the misty moors at night by a ferocious werewolf.

      This was the world of the imagination. Anything was possible in Dad’s and Alfie’s adventures. Nothing could stop them. Nothing.

      As Alfie grew older though, he found it harder and harder to see these things. As his dad spoke, the boy would open his eyes, become distracted, and begin to wish he could play computer games all night like the other kids at his new big school.

      “Pup, just close your eyes and believe…” his dad would say. However, Alfie was beginning to think that now he was twelve, nearly thirteen, he was too old to believe in magic and myths and fantastical creatures.

      He was about to find out how terribly wrong he was.

       Whiter than White

      The whole of the lower school was gathered in the hall. The few hundred children were sitting in rows of chairs awaiting the guest speaker. No one interesting ever visited Alfie’s school. On Prize-giving Day the guest of honour had been a man who made the cardboard for cornflake packets. The cornflake-cardboard man’s speech was so mind-numbingly boring, even he fell asleep delivering it.

      Today there was a talk from the town’s new dentist. It was to be a lecture about looking after your teeth. Not wildly exciting, but at least it meant they were all out of lessons for a while, thought Alfie. Not liking dentists, Alfie sat himself right in the back row, in his bedraggled school uniform. His shirt was once white but had long since gone grey. His jumper was full of holes. His blazer was torn in several places. His trousers were too short for him. Nevertheless, Alfie’s father had taught him to wear his uniform with pride; the boy’s frayed tie was always knotted absolutely perfectly.

      Slumped next to Alfie was the only kid in the school shorter than him. A very little girl called Gabz. Seemingly shy, no one had heard her speak, despite her having been at the school now for a whole term. Most of the time Gabz hid behind her curtain of dreadlocks, not making eye contact with anyone.

      When all the kids had finally stopped monkeying around and sat down, the headmaster took to the stage. If there was ever a competition to find the man most completely unsuited to being a headmaster, Mr Grey would win first prize. Children scared him, teachers scared him, even his own reflection scared him. If his job didn’t suit Mr Grey, his surname definitely did. His shoes, his socks, his trousers, his belt, his shirt, his tie, his jacket, his hair, even his eyes were all shades of grey.

      Mr Grey had the whole grey colour spectrum covered:

      “C-c-c-come on now, settle d-d-d-down…”

      Mr Grey stammered when he was nervous. Nothing made him more nervous than having to speak in front of the whole school.

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