The Wooden Mile by Chris Mould

wanted revenge on Cake and that was all. Maybe they’ll never try and get in the house.”
    â€œThey already have.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh yes, Stanley. Your brave pirate heroes have darkened your door once before. After your Great-uncle Bart died, before you came,
they were here late one afternoon after too much beer.
    â€œCame across the moor they did, creeping through the garden. Came right through that back door, into the kitchen.”
    Stanley sat bolt upright. “And what then?”
    â€œThat’s when they learned not to mess with Mrs. Carelli, Stanley. This old lady ain’t no pushover.”
    A smile broke over Stanley’s face. “Tell me more.”
    â€œI’d just mopped the floor, so needless to say that lop-sided lump, Jones, was on his back as soon as he came through the door.”
    â€œThen what?” asked Stanley, already breaking into laughter.
    â€œWell, I’d just got my bread fresh out of the oven and I was standing there wondering
what to do and, well, it just came naturally.”
    â€œWhat did?”
    â€œI’ve always had a good punch, Stanley. Ever since I was younger. So I dug my hands into those fresh crusty loaves and used ’em like boxing gloves. My goodness, they were hot, but it worked like magic. Knocked those two lily-livered landlubbers flying, I did. Mind you, I was sickened. Them beautiful loaves was wasted.”
    After all Stanley had gone through and everything he had just heard, the thought of Mrs. Carelli bashing Randall Flynn and Bill Timbers with two brown loaves sent tears of laughter streaming down his face.
    Mrs. Carelli’s face had told her tale very sternly, but suddenly she saw the funny side.
She looked at Stanley and burst into a giggle. Soon they were both laughing uncontrollably at the crazy story of the pirates and the loaves of bread.
    â€œI guess that’s why they would rather you were tucked up in bed when they came,” he said, trying to straighten his face.
    And somehow Stanley knew that he would never see the three buccaneers in quite the same way again.

9
    Dreaming
    In the short time before daybreak that Stanley slept, he dreamed of the mermaid. She came to life and swam around his head, singing beautifully. But the sound haunted him and he stirred restlessly, tossing and turning in his bed.
    He saw row upon row of freshly baked loaves. And then the wolf was standing over
his bed. He woke with a start, praying for the end of the night.
    Â 
    When the morning finally arrived, he was keen to know if there was any evidence of the previous night’s adventures.
    He wandered down to The Sweet Tooth. The door was wide open and the sign in the window read, “Open as Usual.” Intrigued, he peered inside.
    There was Mr. Cake, like nothing had ever happened, busying himself behind the counter.
    Stanley retreated slowly, his mind crazy with thoughts. What had he done? Who had he shot? Somebody else?
    â€œStanley Buggles, Stanley Buggles. Come on in, I have something for you.”
    Before Stanley could turn and run, Cake
was right there upon him. He held Stanley by the arms and stared into his face.
    â€œI want to thank you, Stanley. Your stay here has changed my life. Here, you must take these,” he said, and thrust a huge bag of sweets into Stanley’s hands. “And if ever I can help you in return I should be pleased to do so.”
    Cake was different. His eyes were a pale blue and his pupils were back to normal. There was a mild expression in his face. A terrible scar ran right across the middle of his forehead. A scar that suggested the shape of a bullet. A silver bullet, perhaps!
    Â 
    That night, Stanley dreamed of the pike. A single frosty eye glared at him closely, and as he watched he could see his own reflection in its pupil. He could hear the rush of the water. And then the fish spoke again.

    â€œFear not, Stanley. When you are gone, I shall hold your