Bad Dad
Tony Ross
David Walliams
The new heart-warming and hilariously brilliant story from number one bestselling author David Walliams. Beautifully illustrated by artistic genius, Tony Ross.Dads come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.There are fat ones and thin ones, tall ones and short ones.There are young ones and old ones, clever ones and stupid ones.There are silly ones and serious ones, loud ones and quiet ones.Of course, there are good dads, and bad dads . . .A high-speed cops and robbers adventure with heart and soul about a father and son taking on the villainous Mr Big – and winning!This riches-to-rags story will have you on the edge of your seat and howling with laughter!Bad Dad is a fast and furious, heart-warming story of a father and son on an adventure – and a thrilling mission to break an innocent man into prison!
Copyright (#ulink_a675f36a-95cb-566f-b1c6-65ce12579d05)
First published in
Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins website address is:
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
1
Text copyright © David Walliams 2017
David Walliams and Tony Ross assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively.
Cover lettering of author’s name copyright © Quentin Blake 2017. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Illustrations copyright © Tony Ross 2017
Source ISBN: 9780008164652
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2017 ISBN: 9780008164676
Version: 2017-11-09
Cover illustration copyright © Tony Ross 2017
Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover lettering of author’s name copyright © Quentin Blake 2010
This book is produced from independently certified FSC™ paper to ensure responsible forest management.
For more information visit: www.harpercollins.co.uk/green
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Dedication (#ulink_e7657af0-fef2-52fc-88cc-ab58c9d176f2)
Contents
Cover (#ua98575cc-6a7f-520b-9b8a-d2d174972781)
Title Page (#u6f10d1a3-03df-5cf9-aa61-ba02c9be1d67)
Copyright (#ulink_bcf4ef3f-944c-5dcc-b3f6-7de132be26ba)
Dedication (#ulink_46ed8b96-931d-5663-93c4-2bf40075ac80)
Chapter 1: Roar! (#ulink_0cd02e8e-e5ca-5ebd-9bc3-2a764004b7d7)
Chapter 2: Out of Control (#ulink_b30c79d5-d8ab-59be-a364-b4a187239880)
Chapter 3: Crushed in the Crash (#ulink_fcbed142-aa86-5a2b-b3b3-76264f3c07ce)
Chapter 4: Hard-Faced Men (#ulink_08321f6d-4aff-5709-bf4b-ce5c7e72d957)
Chapter 5: Top Secret (#ulink_3096b361-2798-5ba2-a3fd-e41bb56894fd)
Chapter 6: The Smell of Old Books
Chapter 7: Death by Poetry
Chapter 8: Flying Vicar
Chapter 9: One Job
Chapter 10: No Time to Breathe
Chapter 11: Two Wheels are Better than Four!
Chapter 12: Hurl!
Chapter 13: Slap! Slap! Slap!
Chapter 14: Promise
Chapter 15: Psalms and Ping-Pong
Chapter 16: All Bag and No Tea
Chapter 17: Splosh!
Chapter 18: De-Trouser
Chapter 19: A Warning
Chapter 20: Seven P
Chapter 21: Barf
Chapter 22: Trust
Chapter 23: Shopping Trolley
Chapter 24: Monsters of the Deep
Chapter 25: Boom!
Chapter 26: Hot Pursuit
Chapter 27: Goal!
Chapter 28: A Mighty Duel
Chapter 29: No Way Out
Chapter 30: Countdown
Chapter 31: Demolition Derby
Chapter 32: What Goes Up Must Come Down
Chapter 33: Sulk
Chapter 34: Crime Does Pay
Chapter 35: Champagne, Perfume and Hairspray
Chapter 36: Loot
Chapter 37: Bursting a Brain
Chapter 38: Stop!
Chapter 39: A Figure in the Shadows
Chapter 40: Empty Chairs
Chapter 41: Guilty
Chapter 42: No One Says No
Chapter 43: Pongy Cheese
Chapter 44: Sneeze Juice
Chapter 45: Masterplan
Chapter 46: A Riddle
Chapter 47: Where Did You Get That Goose?
Chapter 48: Wrongfoot
Chapter 49: Thwack!
Chapter 50: Seven Brothers
Chapter 51: A Graveyard for Cars
Chapter 52: Crusher
Chapter 53: Deep, Dark Dread
Chapter 54: Liar
Chapter 55: Wrinkly Bottom
Chapter 56: Mum With a Gun
Chapter 57: Fearsome Beasts
Chapter 58: Kill Two Birds With One Stone
Chapter 59: Overcooked Sausages
Chapter 60: Fury
Chapter 61: The Noise! The People!
Chapter 62: Gotcha, Gangsta!
Chapter 63: Rotten Fruit
Chapter 64: The Truth
Chapter 65: Frank Takes the Stage
Chapter 66: Not a Seat in the House
Chapter 67: Wish
Footnotes
More from the World of David Walliams
Also by David Walliams
About the Publisher
Dads come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There are FAT ones and thin ones, tall ones and short ones. There are young ones and old ones, clever ones and stupid ones.
There are silly ones and serious ones, LOUD ones and quiet ones.
Of course there are good dads, and bad dads.
This is the story of a dad and his son.
Frank is the son.
Dad is the dad. His name is Gilbert.
This is Rita, Frank’s mum.
Auntie Flip is Dad’s aunt.
She babysits Frank sometimes.
Mr Big is a surprisingly small crime boss. Whatever time of day it is, he wears silk pyjamas and a dressing gown, with velvet slippers monogrammed “Mr B”.
Mr Big has two henchmen, Fingers and Thumbs.
Fingers is so called for his long, thin fingers, perfect for picking pockets.
Thumbs has enormous thumbs that he uses to inflict terrible pain on Mr Big’s enemies.
Will and Bear are Thumbs’s fearsome nephews.
Chang is Mr Big’s sinister butler.
Reverend Judith is a vicar.
Sergeant Scoff is the local policeman.
Mr Swivel is a one-eyed prison guard.
Judge Pillar is well known for having a heart of stone.
Raj is a newsagent.
This is a map of the town.
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went Dad’s car as it sped round the dirt track. Frank’s father was a banger racer. It was a dangerous sport. Cars would smash into each other…
… as they zoomed round and round.
Dad raced an old Mini that he had souped up himself. He had painted a Union Jack on the car, and named her “Queenie” after a lady he admired, Her Majesty the Queen. The car became as famous in racing circles as Dad. Queenie’s engine made an unmistakable sound like a lion.
Dad was King of the Track. He was the greatest banger racer the town had ever seen. People came from all over the country to watch him race. Nobody won more times than him. Week after week, month after month, year after year, Dad would lift the trophies above his head as the crowds cheered and shouted his name.
Life was golden. Because Dad was a local hero, everyone wanted to know him. Whenever he took his son out for pie and mash, the owner of the shop would give them double helpings and then wouldn’t let them pay a penny.
If Frank was walking down the street with his father, people in cars would beep their horns…
BEEP! BEEP!
… and smile and wave. The boy always felt a burst of pride whenever that happened. Frank even got marked up on a test by his Maths teacher after the man got a photo taken with his father at parents’ evening.
No one was a bigger fan of Dad than his own son. The boy worshipped his father. He was a hero to him. Frank longed to be just like his dad one day, a champion race-car driver. His dream was to one day drive Queenie.
As you might expect, father and son looked alike. Both were short and round, with sticky-out ears. The boy looked like someone had put his dad into a shrinking machine. Of all the children at his school, Frank knew he was never going to be the tallest or the handsomest or the strongest or the cleverest or the funniest. But he had seen the magic and wonder his father could create with his skill and courage on the racetrack. More than anything, he wanted to taste that.
As for Dad, he forbade his son from watching him race. A night would start with twenty cars speeding round the track, and by the end there would be just one car still standing. Drivers often got badly injured in the pile-ups, and sometimes spectators did too if the cars crashed into the stands.
“It’s dangerous, mate,” said Dad. Gilbert always called his son “mate”. They were father and son, but best friends too.
“But, Dad…” the boy would plead as his father tucked him up in bed.
“No ‘buts’, mate. I don’t want you to see me get hurt.”
“But you’re the best! You’ll never get hurt!”
“I said ‘no buts’. Now come on, be a good boy. Give us a huggle
and go to sleep.”
Dad would always plant a kiss on his son’s forehead before he went out to race for the night. As for Frank, he would close his eyes and pretend to be asleep. However, as soon as he heard the door close, he would creep out of bed and crawl down the hallway to the front door so as not to alert his mum. The woman would always shut herself in her bedroom and speak in hushed tones on the telephone whenever her husband was out of the house. Still dressed in his pyjamas, the boy would run all the way to the racetrack.
Just outside the stadium was a huge tower of rusty old cars that had been smashed up in previous races. Frank would climb to the top of the pile. There he had the best view of the race. The boy would sit cross-legged on the roof of the highest car, and watch all the bangers speed by. Every time his father’s Mini, Queenie, zoomed past, roaring as she went, the boy would cheer.
Dad had no idea his son was up there. The man barred his son from watching him race because he feared the worst might happen.
One night it did.
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The night of the accident there seemed to be something badly wrong with Dad’s car from the start. Instead of the Mini’s distinctive roar, today the engine was making a loud grinding noise, as if it was about to explode.
As soon as Dad threw Queenie into gear on the start line, the car lurched forward in stops and starts like a bucking bull.
That fateful night, Frank was sitting on top of the pile of cars just outside the stadium as he always did. It was in the depths of winter, and wind and rain swirled around him. Despite being soaked to the skin, the boy never wanted to miss a race.
Something was wrong that night. Very wrong. As soon as the flag waved to start the race, Dad struggled to control his own car.
Tonight there was no roar from the Mini’s engine, rather that grinding noise. A deathly hush descended on the crowd. Frank felt sick to his stomach.
Suddenly there was a huge explosion from Queenie’s exhaust pipe.
“DAD!” shouted the boy. From all that distance the man couldn’t hear his son, especially over the thunder of all the other cars’ engines. Frank desperately wanted to help. To do something. Anything. But he was powerless to stop what was about to happen.
The Mini sped up dramatically, and then wouldn’t slow down.
The art of racing motor vehicles is knowing when to go fast, and when to slow down. Immediately, Dad was taking the corners far too quickly. This wasn’t what a champion banger racer did. Frank’s heart was thumping in his chest. Queenie’s brakes must have gone. But how? Dad would always check and recheck his car before every race.
Suddenly, Queenie swerved sharply to avoid a head-on collision with a Ford Capri. But the Mini was going far too fast, and as it turned it rolled
Dad’s car was now upside down in the middle of the track. The Jaguar behind smashed into the Mini, sending the car flying through the air. It crashed to the ground again…
BAMM!
…smashing into pieces.
“NO, DAD, NO!” shouted Frank from the top of the tower of cars.
Down on the track there was a mighty pile-up as the cars couldn’t stop in time.
There was the sound of metal crunching into metal and glass smashing.
“NOOOO!” shouted Frank.
The boy raced down the tower of cars, and ran through the crowds to his dad’s car. An air ambulance hovered overhead before landing on the track. Frank held his father’s hand through the wreckage, as the firemen tried to cut him out of the car.
“What are you doing here, mate?” whispered Dad. “You should be at home in bed.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” replied Frank.
“I’m going to need the biggest huggle when I am out of this.”
“Everything’s going to be all right, Dad. I promise.”
But it was a promise the boy couldn’t keep.
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Frank held his father’s hand as the ambulance raced to the hospital. The man’s right leg had been completely crushed in the crash, and he was losing a lot of blood.
“Mr Goodie,” began the doctor as soon as Dad had been rushed into the Accident and Emergency department at the hospital. “I have some very bad news. We have to amputate your leg.”
“Which one?” replied Dad, not losing his sense of humour at this dark time.
“The right one, of course. If we don’t operate straight away, there is a very real chance you will die.”
“I don’t want you to die, Dad!” said Frank.
“It’s all right, mate. I’m good at hopping.”
As Dad was immediately taken down to the operating theatre, Frank tried and tried to call his mother, but the line was engaged for hours. The operation took all night. Frank paced up and down the waiting area, unable to sleep. When his father came to from the anaesthetic in the morning, his son was the first person he saw when he opened his eyes.
“Mate, you’re the best,” whispered Dad. It was clear he was in a lot of pain.
“I am so pleased you made it, Dad,” replied Frank.
“Of course. I didn’t want to miss seeing you grow up. Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I called and called her last night, but I couldn’t get through.”
“She’ll come.”
It was a couple of hours until she did.
“Oh, Gilbert!” she said upon seeing him, and burst into tears.
The family reunion was brief, though, as she didn’t stay that long. Gilbert was in hospital for months, but his wife’s visits to his bedside became less and less frequent, and shorter and shorter. However, the nurses set up a little camp bed for Frank, and the boy slept by his father’s side every single night.
One day the doctors came in with a wooden leg for Gilbert.
It fitted him perfectly. Within days he learned to walk again, and insisted on walking all the way back to their block of flats from the hospital.
“I can still do everything!” said Dad proudly.
He walked with a limp, and Frank held his hand the whole way, but they got home eventually.
When they arrived back at the flat, Mum wasn’t there. She had left a note on the kitchen table. It read:
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“What does it mean, Dad?” asked Frank. “Why is she sorry?”
“Because she has left.”
“She’s not coming back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Your mum has gone to live in a big house with a small man.”
“But…!”
“I’m sorry, Frank. I tried my best for her. But my best wasn’t good enough.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I need a huggle.”
“Me too.”
Father and son held on to each other tight, and they cried and cried until they could cry no more.
To his credit, Dad never said anything bad about his wife – or by this time ex-wife – but Frank felt deeply hurt that his mother had left without even saying goodbye.
Even though she now lived in a huge house, Mum never invited her son to stay. Not once. When she forgot her son’s birthday for the second year in a row, Frank was in no hurry to see his mother again. Weeks and months passed without any contact, and then it became unthinkable to call her. So he never did. Frank never stopped thinking about her, however. It was confusing because, as much as she’d hurt him, Frank still loved her.
Dad lost so much after the crash. Not just his leg, but his wife too. Soon he was about to lose something else dear to him.
His job.
Gilbert loved being a banger-racing driver. It was all he’d dreamed of from when he was a boy. Despite his pleas, the track owners banned him from racing ever again. They blamed him for the accident, and never wanted to see him back on the track. What’s more, they told him it wasn’t safe for him to race cars with only one leg.
So Dad tried and tried to get a different job, any job. But jobs in the town were scarce, and a man with a wooden leg always found himself at the bottom of the pile.
Dad was used to being a hero, but now he felt like a zero.
Two cold Christmases came and went.
As time passed, Frank became increasingly worried about his father. Sometimes he would find the man sitting alone in an armchair, staring into space. Often Dad wouldn’t leave the flat they lived in for days.
No one beeped their horns any more when they walked down the street, and now they couldn’t afford to go to the pie and mash shop, let alone be given double helpings.
On Frank’s eleventh birthday, Dad bought his son a huge race-car set. The boy loved it.
It was the best toy ever. Dad even painted one of the miniature Minis with a Union Jack so it looked just like Queenie. Together they would play with it late into the night, re-enacting Dad’s famous victories on the track.
However, as much as he loved it, Frank worried where his father, who’d been unemployed now for a couple of years, had got the money from to buy it. Frank knew that very few children had toys like these. Race-car sets cost hundreds of pounds. And Dad didn’t have hundreds of pounds.
Soon after Frank’s birthday, groups of hard-faced men started banging on the door of the flat.
THUD! THUD!
They would wave pieces of paper and bark about “unpaid debts”. Then they would push past Frank and force their way in. Once inside, the men would pick up anything they thought might be worth something, and march out with it. First it was the TV, then it was the sofa, then it was the boy’s bunk bed.
One time Frank wouldn’t answer the door and they simply smashed it off its hinges. That day they took the toy race-car track.
After these visits, Dad would become full of sorrow. A look of despair would cross his face, and he would sit in silence. Frank would do his best to cheer up his sad dad.
“Don’t be down, Dad,” the boy would say. “I will get all our stuff back one day. I promise. When I’m grown up, I will become a racing driver just like you.”
“Come here, son, and give us a huggle.”
The pair would embrace, and everything would feel all right again. They may have been poor, but Frank never felt poor in his heart. The boy didn’t mind that his jumpers had so many holes in them they were more hole than jumper. He never cared that he had to carry his books to school in a plastic bag that always broke. Soon it became normal that they had just one working light bulb in the flat and they had to move it from room to room at night.
That is because the boy had the best dad in the world. Or so he thought.
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