The Midnight Gang

The Dome of Doom

Mr Dead-Squirrel-On-His-Head

The Hairy Gnome

Mrs Goggle-Eyes

Dr Octopus

Mr Clown-Shoes

The Dinosaur

Miss Hooter

Professor Comb-Over

PING! The lift doors closed.

The porter smiled at Tom, but the boy looked the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at the man. He seemed even creepier when he smiled. Those rotten and misshapen teeth looked like they could crunch through your bones. Tom’s eyes scanned the man’s name badge. Unlike the nurse and doctor he had already met, this badge didn’t have a name on it, but just the man’s job.

As the lift trundled slowly upwards, Tom’s world gradually began to take shape. Little by little, he began piecing together the events that had brought him here.

It had been a blazing hot summer’s day and he had been playing cricket on the school pitch. The boy lifted his head slightly and looked down. He was still wearing his cricket whites.

Despite his school priding itself on always coming top in cricket and rugby in the country, Tom wasn’t good at sports. The school celebrated all its sporting heroes with cups and trophies and medals and special mentions by the headmaster in assembly. A boy who much preferred to hide himself away in the corner of the school library with some dusty old books like Tom could easily feel like a nobody.

Tom was miserable at school, and would wish the time away. If only the days and nights would pass quicker, he would often think to himself. The boy was only twelve, but he longed to leave childhood behind forever. Then he would be a grown-up and would not have to go to school any more.

The school played cricket in the summer, and Tom immediately discovered the best part of the game for the reluctant sportsman … fielding. The boy would always place himself at the very far edge of the pitch. So far out that Tom could indulge in his favourite pastime – daydreaming. So far out he could daydream the afternoon away. So far out there was little or no chance of the heavy red leather ball ever coming your way.

Well, that was Tom’s thinking.

This time he was wrong.

Very wrong.

As the numbers of the floors flashed past in the lift, the last thing Tom remembered flashed past in his mind.

A heavy red leather ball flying through the air straight towards him at terrific speed.

THUD

Then everything went dark.

PING!

“This is your stop, young sir! Top floor! Home of LORD FUNT HOSPITAL’s children’s ward!” slurred the porter.

As the lift doors opened, the trolley was rolled out. The porter pushed Tom down yet another long corridor before a pair of tall doors banged open.

The pair was inside the children’s ward.

“Welcome to your new home,” said the porter.

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Tom raised his swollen head a little to take his first look at what was his new home, the children’s ward of LORD FUNT HOSPITAL. There were four other children in the ward. They were all sitting or lying on their beds. All were silent, and no one paid this new boy much attention. Boredom hung in the still, stuffy air. It was more like an old people’s home than a children’s ward.

In the nearest bed was a plump-looking boy in an old pair of spotty pyjamas that were too small for him. He was flicking through a dog-eared picture book of helicopters, and sneakily munching on some chocolates he had hidden under his bed sheet. The name George was chalked on a blackboard above his bed.

Next to him was a short, slight boy with neatly combed ginger hair. He must have had an operation on his eyes as they were covered with bandages. So covered, in fact, that it would be impossible to see anything. A tall pile of classical music CDs and a CD player sat on his side table. The boy’s pyjamas were much smarter than George’s, and he wore them neatly with the top button done up. Over his bed in chalk was the name Robin.

Across the ward from him was a girl with a bob of black hair and round glasses. Startlingly, she had both her legs and arms in plaster. All four of her limbs were being held aloft by a complex series of pulleys and winches. She looked like a puppet on strings. On her blackboard it read Amber.

Then in the far corner of the ward, away from the other children, Tom noticed a sorrowful figure. It was a girl, but it was hard to tell her age as it looked as if illness had weakened her. A few wispy strands of hair sat on top of her head. Above her bed was chalked the name Sally.

“Say hello to everyone, young sir,” prompted the porter.

Tom felt shy, so muttered, “Hello,” as quietly as he could get away with, without being told to repeat himself.

There was a vague murmur of “hellos” in return, though Sally remained silent.

“This must be your bed, right here,” slurred the porter as he wheeled the trolley over. Expertly the boy was rolled from the trolley to the bed.

“Are you comfortable?” asked the porter, plumping up a pillow.

Tom didn’t answer. It wasn’t comfortable at all. It was like lying on a concrete slab with a brick for a pillow. Even the trolley was more comfortable. It was stupid for Tom to pretend not to hear the porter, as he was standing right next to him. The man was so close that Tom could smell him. In fact, the boy was sure the whole ward could smell him. The man was rather pongy, like he hadn’t washed for quite some time. His clothes were tired and worn. His shoes were falling apart and his work overall was thick with grease and grime. He looked like he might be homeless.

“So this is the world’s worst cricketer?” came a voice. The children in the ward tensed and

at the sound.

Then a tall, thin lady stepped out of her office at the far end of the room. It was Matron, the senior nurse who was in charge of the ward. Slowly and surely she made her way down the row of beds towards Tom, her high heels clunking on the floor.

From a distance, Matron looked like she was beautiful. Her long blonde hair had been sprayed perfectly in place, her face was shiny with make-up and her teeth were sparkling white. However, when she got nearer to Tom, the boy realised that her smile was fake. Her eyes were two large black pools, a window into the darkness within. Matron’s perfume was so sickly sweet it burned the children’s throats as she passed by.

“You are meant to catch a cricket ball! Not header it!” said the lady. “Stupid, stupid child! Ha ha ha!” No one laughed except her. It certainly didn’t sound funny to Tom, whose head was still throbbing with pain.

“That cricket ball left a very nasty bump, Madam Matron,” slurred the porter. His voice was cracking a little, as if he was nervous of the woman. “I think young sir should have an X-ray first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t need your opinion, thank you!” snapped Matron. In an instant, her face didn’t seem that beautiful after all, as it twisted into a snarl. “You are nothing more than a lowly porter, lowest of the low. You don’t know the first thing about caring for the patients. So in future keep your mouth shut!”

The porter lowered his head, and the other children exchanged nervous looks. It was clear this lady intimidated them all too.

With a flick of her hand, Matron brushed the porter aside, and he stumbled a little to steady himself.

“Let me look at this bump,” she said as she peered over the boy. “Mmm, yes, that is a nasty bump. You should have an X-ray first thing in the morning.”