My evil plot to kidnap Father Christmas
FRANCESCA SIMON published her first Horrid Henry book in 1994 and has since gone on to write more than 50 story books about the troublesome boy and his arch-enemy, Perfect Peter, his younger brother. Here, Henry hatches a plot to capture Father christmas and hold him hostage until he gets all the presents he wants — instead of the dull ones chosen for him . . .
It was Christmas Eve at last. Every minute felt like an hour. Every hour felt like a year. How could Henry live until Christmas morning when he could get his hands on all his loot?
Mum and Dad were baking frantically in the kitchen.
Perfect Peter sat by the twinkling Christmas tree scratching out ‘silent Night’ over and over again on his cello.
‘Can’t you play something else?’ snapped Henry.
‘No,’ said Peter, sawing away. ‘this is the only Christmas carol I know. You can move if you don’t like it.’
‘ You move,’ said Henry. Peter ignored him.
‘siiiiiiiii—lent Niiiiight,’ screeched the cello. aaaRRRGH. Horrid Henry lay on the sofa with his fingers in his ears, double-checking his choices from the toy Heaven catalogue. Big red ‘X’s’ appeared on every page, to help you-know-who remember all the toys he absolutely had to have. Oh please, let everything he wanted leap from its pages and into santa’s sack. after all, what could be better than looking at a huge glittering stack of presents on Christmas morning, and knowing that they were all for you?
Oh please let this be the year when he finally got everything he wanted!
His letter to Father Christmas couldn’t have been clearer.
Dear Father Christmas,
I want loads and loads and loads of cash, to make up for the puny amount you put in my stocking last year.
And a Robomatic Supersonic Space Howler Deluxe plus attachments would be great, too. I have asked for this before, you know!!! And the Terminator Gladiator fighting kit.
I need lots more Day-Glo slime and comics and a Mutant Max poster and the new Zapatron Hip-Hop Dinosaur. This is your last chance. Henry PS. Satsumas are NOT presents!!!!! PPS. Peter asked me to tell you to give me all his presents as he doesn’t want any.
How hard could it be for Father Christmas to get this right? He’d asked for the space Howler last year, and it never arrived. Instead, Henry got . . . vests. and handkerchiefs. and books. and clothes. and a— bleuccccck — jigsaw puzzle and a skipping rope and a tiny supersoaker instead of the mega- sized one he’d specified. Yuck! Father Christmas obviously needed Henry’s help.
Father Christmas is getting old and doddery, thought Henry. Maybe he hasn’t got my letters. Maybe he’s lost his reading glasses. Or — what a horrible thought — maybe he was delivering Henry’s presents by mistake to some other Henry. Eeeek!
some yucky, undeserving Henry was probably right now this minute playing with Henry’s terminator Gladiator sword, shield, axe and trident. and enjoying his Intergalactic samurai Gorillas. It was so unfair!
and then suddenly Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. why had he never thought of this before? all his present problems would be over. Presents were far too important to leave to Father Christmas.
since he couldn’t be trusted to bring the right gifts, Horrid Henry had no choice. He would have to ambush Father Christmas. Yes! He’d hold Father Christmas hostage with his Goo-shooter, while he rummaged in his present sack for all the loot he was owed. Maybe Henry would keep the lot. Now that would be fair. Let’s see, thought Horrid Henry. Father Christmas was bound to be a slippery character, so he’d need to boobytrap his bedroom. when youknow-who sneaked in to fill his stocking at the end of the bed, Henry could leap up and nab him. Father Christmas had a lot of explaining to do for all those years of stockings filled with satsumas and walnuts instead of chocolate and cold hard cash. so, how best to capture him? Henry considered. a bucket of water above the door. a skipping rope stretched tight across the entrance, guaranteed to trip up intruders. a web of string criss- crossed from bedpost to door and threaded with bells to ensnare night-time visitors. And let’s not forget strategically scattered whoopee cushions. His plan was foolproof. Loot, here I come, thought Horrid Henry.
Horrid Henry sat up in bed, his God shooter aimed at the half - open door where a bucket of water balanced. All his traps were laid. No one was getting in without Henry knowing about it. Any minute now, he’d catch Father Christmas and make him pay up.
Henry waited. And waited. And waited. His eyes started to feel heavy and he closed them for a moment. There was a rustling at Henry's door. Oh my God, this was it! Henry lay down and pretended to be asleep.
Cr-eeeek. Cr-eeeek.
Horrid Henry reached for his Goo-shooter. A huge shape loomed in the doorway. Henry braced himself to attack. ‘Doesn’t he look when he's s asleep?’ whispered the shape.
‘ What a little snugglechops,' whispered another.
Sweet? Snugglechops? Horrid Henry's fingers itched to let Mum and Dad have it with both barrels.
POW! SPLAT!
Henry could see it now. Mum covered in green goo. Dad covered in green goo. Mum and Dad snatching
the Goo-Shooter and wrecking all his plans and throwing out all his presents and banning him from TV for ever . . . hmmmn. His fingers felt a little less itchy.
Henry lowered his Goo- Shooter. The bucket of water wobbled above the door.
Yikes! What if Mum and Dad stepped into his Santa traps? All his hard work— ruined. ‘I’m awake,’ snarled Henry. The shapes stepped back. The water stopped wobbling. ‘Go to sleep!’ hissed Mum. ‘Go to sleep!’ hissed Dad. ‘ What are you doing here?’ demanded Henry.
‘Checking on you,’ said Mum. ‘Now go to sleep or Father Christmas will never come.’ He’d better, thought Henry. Horrid Henry woke with a jolt. AAARRGGH! He’d fallen asleep. How could he? Panting and gasping Henry switched on the light. Phew. His traps were intact. His stocking was empty. Father Christmas hadn’t been yet.
Wow, was that lucky. That was incredibly lucky. Henry lay back, his heart pounding.
And then Horrid Henry had a terrible thought.
What if Father Christmas had decided to be spiteful and avoid Henry’s bedroom this year? Or what if he’d played a sneaky trick on Henry and filled a stocking downstairs instead? Nah. No way.
But wait. When Father Christmas came to Rude Ralph’s house he always filled the stockings downstairs. Now Henry came to think of it, Moody Margaret always left her stocking downstairs too, hanging from the fireplace, not from the end of her bed, like Henry did. Horrid Henry looked at the clock. It was past midnight. Mum and Dad had forbidden him to go downstairs till morning, on pain of hav- ing all his presents taken away and no telly all day.
But this was an emergency. He’d creep downstairs, take a quick peek to make sure he hadn’t missed Father Christmas, then be back in bed in a jiffy.
No one will ever know, thought Horrid Henry. Henry tiptoed round the whoopee cushions, leaped over the criss-cross threads, stepped over the skipping rope and carefully squeezed through his door so as not to disturb the bucket of water. Then he crept downstairs. Sneak Sneak Sneak
Horrid Henry shone his torch over the sitting room. Father Christmas hadn’t been. The room was exactly as he’d left it that evening.
Except for one thing. Henry’s light illuminated the Christmas tree, heavy with chocolate santas and chocolate bells and chocolate reindeer. Mum and Dad must have hung them on the tree after he’d gone to bed.
Horrid Henry looked at the chocolates cluttering up the Christmas tree. Shame, thought Horrid Henry, the way those chocolates spoil the view of all those lovely decorations. You could barely see the baubles and tinsel he and Peter had worked so hard to put on.
‘Hi, Henry,’ said the chocolate santas. ‘Don’t you want to eat us?’
‘Go on, Henry,’ said the chocolate bells. ‘You know you want to.’
‘What are you waiting for, Henry?’ urged the chocolate reindeer.
What indeed? After all, it was Christmas.
Henry took a chocolate santa or three from the side, and then another two from the back. Hmmn, boy, was that great chocolate, he thought, stuffing them into his mouth.
Oops. Now the chocolate santas looked a little unbalanced.
Better take a few from the front and from the other side, to even it up, thought Henry. Then no one will notice there are a few chocolates missing. Henry gobbled and gorged and guzzled. Wow, were those chocolates yummy!!!
The tree looks a bit bare, thought Henry a little while later. Mum had such eagle eyes she might notice that a few — well, all — of the chocolates were missing.
He’d better hide all those gaps with a few extra baubles. And, while he was improving the tree, he could swap that stupid fairy for Terminator Gladiator.
Henry piled extra decorations on to the branches.
Soon the Christmas tree was so covered in baubles and tinsel there was barely a hint of green. No one would notice the missing chocolates. Then Henry stood on a chair, dumped the fairy, and, standing on his tippy-tippy toes, hung Terminator Gladiator at the top where he belonged. Perfect, thought Horrid Henry, jumping off the chair and stepping back to admire his work. Absolutely perfect. Thanks to me this is the best tree ever. There was a terrible creaking sound. Then another. Then suddenly . . .
CRASH!
The Christmas tree toppled over. Horrid Henry’s heart stopped. Upstairs he could hear Mum and Dad stirring.
‘Oy! Who’s down there?’ shouted Dad. RUN!!! thought Horrid Henry. Run for your life!!
Horrid Henry ran like he had never run before, up the stairs to his room before Mum and Dad could catch him. Oh please let him get there in time. His parents’ bedroom door opened just as Henry dashed inside his room. He’d made it. He was safe.
SPLASH!
The bucket of water spilled all over him.
TRIP!
Horrid Henry fell over the skipping rope.
CRASH! SMASH! RING! RING!
jangled the bells.
PLLLLLLL!
belched the whoopee cushions.
‘What is going on in here?’ shrieked Mum, glaring.
‘Nothing,’ said Horrid Henry, as he lay sprawled on the floor soaking wet and tangled up in threads and wires and rope. ‘I heard a noise downstairs so I got up to check,’ he added innocently.
‘Tree’s fallen over,’ called Dad. ‘Must have been overloaded. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’
‘Get back to bed, Henry,’ said Mum wearily. ‘And don’t touch your stocking till morning.’
Henry looked. And gasped. His stocking was stuffed and bulging. That mean old sneak, thought Horrid Henry indignantly. How did he do it? How had he escaped the traps?
Watch out Father Christmas, thought Horrid Henry. I’ll get you next year.
Horrid Henry’s Ambush is taken from Horrid Henry’s Cracking Christmas by Francesca Simon, published by orion Children’s Books at £6.99. Text © Francesca Simon. To order a copy for £5.59 (20 per cent discount), visit mailshop.co.uk/ books or call 0844 571 0640. P&P is free on orders over £15. offer valid until december 17, 2018.