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The name of the boy

Posted by on February 27, 2012

Dear Diary,

Despite War telling me I shouldn’t, I’ve been doing a bit of snooping around to see what I could find out about the family that moved into the house whose garden the shed is currently situated in. I crept up the garden and tried listening at the window, but I couldn’t really hear anything, so went around the front and put my ear to the door to see if I’d have more luck there. Practically the exact moment my ear touched the wood the door opened and I fell in a heap into the front hall. Bloody mortified, I was.

I looked up and saw the mother standing there looking down at me. She looked fit for screaming, so quick as a flash I came up with a cover story. I said I was from the council, just doing a final check of the place to make sure it was OK. She looked a bit suspicious, but I think she believed me!

I felt like a spy on a top secret mission, pulling the wool over her eyes like that. I was like Cary Grant in Notorious or Roger Moore in The Man With the Golden Gun. Incidentally, like the Scaramanga character in that film, I was briefly blessed with three nipples. Of course it was more of a curse in the end, but that’s a story for another time.

Pretending to double-check their details “for my records” (I used all the lingo) I found out the lad’s name is Drake Finn. The reason I was interested is because I’m wondering if he might be our new Death. He wouldn’t be the usual type (thankfully) but it seems like a big coincidence him turning up just as we’re waiting for our replacement fourth Horseman, especially considering how long the house has been sitting empty for.

Drake’s mother asked if I’d mind checking the upstairs toilet, which she thinks may have been blocked for some time, so I quickly feigned a nosebleed and ran away.

When I was back at the shed I told War my theory about the boy. He was initially dismissive until Famine pointed out Drake’s initials – D.F. – which sounds like “Death” if you say it fast and a bit wrong. Sort of. Even War seemed convinced then. He nodded and said it was impossible to question evidence like that, then he apologised from the bottom of his “shrivelled, cynical heart” for ever doubting me in the first place.

Actually, thinking about it, he may have been being sarcastic.

But whatever, we’ll just have to wait and see how it all pans out.

In other news, War today brought home a Scalextric racing car set from the charity shop. We all got quite excited about that, and spent a good hour or so building up a track in a sort of double figure-of eight shape. At this point we realised there were no cars in the box. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to check these things before he leaves the shop, but he never listens.

In the end we rolled dried peas around in the little grooves of the track, blowing them with straws. I’m delighted to report that I won, largely because War kept blowing so hard the pea would fly across the table and hit either myself or Famine in the face. He just could not get the hang of it. Eleven times it hit me. Bloody sore it was, too. Famine was black and blue by the end of it, but no matter how hard he tried, War just couldn’t stop launching the peas at our faces at tremendously high speeds! The useless great lump. He kept laughing, too. Embarrassment, I expect.

Famine’s lung capacity isn’t what it once was, and after a nasty moment in which he blacked out going round the first chicane, he opted to sit out for the rest of the race. Whereupon he was struck between the eyes with a dried Wasabi.

Your friend,

Pestilence


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