The Junior Novelization Read online

  The Farmer let out a short shriek. What sort of tests was this doctor going to do with a hammer big enough to break concrete? He didn’t wait to find out. Still clutching the clipboard, he fled out into the corridor.

  The man in the white coat took no notice. It wasn’t his job to look after patients. Raising his hammer, he knocked a nail into the wall, rehung the picture that had been knocked down by the flying fork, then stood back to admire his work.

  At the main entrance, the door slid open. The Farmer sneaked out, glancing back over his shoulder nervously. No one was following. Stopping, he looked up and down the street. He had no idea where he was, couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, and had nowhere to go.

  a teetering pile of boxes containing umbrellas, glasses, mobile phones, coats, bags, and a grumpy-looking old man, the Lost Property lady squinted at the photo Shaun was holding up. She rubbed her chin, shook her head, and gestured at the boxes. She couldn’t remember anyone bringing the Farmer in, but Shaun was welcome to look. Behind her, the old man peered out of his box.

  The Flock — still dressed as a human family — looked around in disappointment. There was no sign of the Farmer, and if he hadn’t turned up at the Lost Property office, where could he be?

  Turning to leave, Shaun bleated in excitement, pointing at the window. The Farmer had just passed by! Swaying and tottering, the disguised sheep fell out the door and hurried after him.

  Ahead, the Farmer walked up to an automatic door. It hissed open. The sheep followed him into a shopping mall, where the Farmer stepped onto an escalator. The sheep staggered after him.

  He turned around.

  Shaun groaned. It wasn’t the Farmer after all — just someone who looked like him. Another man was coming down the escalator on the other side, and he looked like the Farmer, too. Pandemonium broke out on the escalator as jostling sheep hurried down the steps. A few moments later they reached the bottom — in a bleating heap — just in time to see the new Farmer walk past. Up close, he didn’t look much like Mossy Bottom’s farmer after all.

  There! Shaun pointed again. On the other side of a set of glass doors, yet another Farmer walked past. Shaun bleated urgently for the Flock to hurry. This must be the real one.

  The sheep picked themselves up and rushed for the doors.

  Splamm!

  Headfirst, the entire Flock slammed into the doors at the same time — looking for a second like flies squashed against a windshield — before toppling back. Shaun sat up, rubbing his head. Not all glass doors, it turned out, were automatic.

  Next to them, the man pushed open a door and walked past. Once again, his resemblance to the Flock’s Farmer vanished up close. Giving the strangely dressed “family” sprawled across the floor a bewildered glance, he walked away.

  Back on his feet, Shaun led the Flock family back out onto the street. At the sight of a bald man bending over, he started running again, skidding to a halt when the man stood up. He wasn’t bald, just wearing a cycling helmet.

  Up ahead was a flashing neon sign in the shape of a sheep. The Flock gasped and gagged as it flickered and changed into a glowing kebab with the word “TASTY” underneath. The thought of food reminded them how hungry they were, though. Staggering to a halt by a stall selling food, Nuts slipped a hoof through the front of the coat that covered him and grabbed a chili pepper. Stomach rumbling, he took an enormous bite.

  A second later, surprised passersby watched as an odd-looking man in a long coat sprinted toward a fountain. A busking pantomime horse that was dancing between Nuts and the water was ripped in two as the bleating sheep-man shot straight through it and stood at the fountain’s edge. More heads turned at the sound of slurping water. A man tutted in disgust, and a woman murmured, “Ooooh, I say,” as she walked on with her nose in the air.

  Nuts drank deeply, trying to stop the horrible heat burning his mouth, unaware that from behind it looked — and sounded — as though the family’s dad was taking a pee in the fountain.

  Exhausted and disheartened, the Flock finally slumped on a bench. Shaun shook his head. Taking the photo out, he gazed at it, and then looked around. The Big City was full of Farmers, Shaun thought glumly to himself.

  Ahead, yet another look-alike pushed open a door and disappeared. Perhaps he was the Farmer? With no other options, the Flock hurried after him.

  As the door swung closed behind Shaun, wonderful smells wafted past his nose and he felt his stomach growl.

  The Flock had followed the Farmer look-alike into a restaurant.

  The place was full of smartly dressed people. Piano music drifted across the room. The sheep, however, were more interested in the trays the waiters carried at shoulder height, balancing enormous, colorful ice creams, puddings, and cakes.

  Shaun’s tummy rumbled again, the Farmer forgotten. He remembered that he hadn’t had so much as a mouthful of grass since waking up. Maybe the Flock could stop here just long enough for lunch.

  Behind Shaun, on the pavement outside, the real Farmer wandered past in his pajamas, looking lost and confused. None of the sheep noticed.

  Inside, the headwaiter looked the new arrivals up and down. With a sigh, he shook his head slightly, as if saying to himself, “The riffraff I have to deal with.” Forcing a welcoming smile onto his face, he led the bizarre-looking family to a table, where he pulled a chair out and took Shaun’s coat.

  Taking off her “backpack,” Timmy’s Mum slid Timmy under the table. The lamb gave an unhappy bleat. Why did he have to sit under the table? A glint of mischief sparkled in his eyes. When the waiter tried to push the chair in to seat the Flock family’s mum, he pushed back. Frowning, the waiter tried again. And again the chair slid back toward him. While the waiter fought to push the chair into place, Timmy’s Mum nudged her son with a hoof. Beneath the table, Timmy sighed and stopped pushing.

  Seated, the Flock looked around the restaurant in fascination. At the next table was a man with perfectly styled hair and a mobile phone held to his ear. He was obviously some kind of celebrity because a gaggle of people were staring at him from outside, their noses pressed against the glass as they waved and took photos.

  The waiter returned. The disguised sheep grabbed at the menus he held out.

  Shaun stared at the odd book in his hooves. Around him, the other sheep tried to cut up their menus with knives and forks, then looked up at him: What were they supposed to do?

  Shaun shot a look at the next table, where the celebrity was reading his menu. Copying him, Shaun opened the menu with a flourish. Around the table, the Flock followed his lead.

  The celebrity took a sip from his drink. The sheep nodded to each other and did the same.

  The celebrity’s elbow accidentally knocked a fork from his table. A second later, there was a crash as the sheep all threw their cutlery to the floor.

  With a sigh, the headwaiter returned to the table to retrieve the fallen knives and forks. At that moment, the celebrity let out a small, polite burp into his fist.

  The sheep looked at each other, grinning, and took deep breaths.

  Shaun raised his hooves to stop them.

  Too late.

  The headwaiter jumped, yelping as a storm of burps echoed off the walls of the restaurant. Eyes burning with fury, he glared at the family.

  Shaun caught a glimpse of Timmy from the corner of his eye. The little sheep had sneaked off to the dessert cart, which was loaded with delicious cakes. Timmy had already had a taste; his grinning face was covered in cream.

  Rolling his eyes, Shaun climbed out of his chair. With one hoof he grabbed Timmy while the other clutched at Timmy’s teddy. As he did so, a stray end of wool from his sweater snagged on the dessert cart.

  Not noticing the mess Timmy had made of the cakes on the lower shelf, a waiter began to push the cart back toward the kitchen. As it rolled, the cart pulled the strand of wool on Shaun’s jumper. Row after row of knitting unraveled. The last shred caught on Shaun’s belt. With a faint ping, it pulled t
he buckle open.

  Shaun’s trousers fell around his ankles.

  Tripping on them, he bleated loudly and threw Timmy into his mum’s arms before hitting the floor with a loud crash. By the time he stood, dusting himself down, every pair of eyes in the restaurant was staring at him.

  The place had fallen completely silent.

  Shaun looked down at himself, and looked up again. His disguise was gone.

  The pianist played a loud, crashing chord. The celebrity blinked at Shaun. Across the room, the headwaiter’s mouth fell open in surprise. A waiter lunged, grabbing for Shaun and breaking the silence with a shout. Suddenly, the air was thick with screams. There was a sheep in the restaurant! Shaun ducked away and ran for it.

  The headwaiter grabbed the phone and flicked through a phone book in search of help. With a wave of his fingers, he ordered the pianist to carry on playing, just as Shaun leapt over the piano, a waiter close behind.

  Shaun ducked into the kitchen.

  A second later, he sprinted out again, a cleaver-waving chef in hot pursuit.

  CRASH! He bumped into a waiter holding a tray. The huge fish on it flew off and landed on the celebrity’s head. The celebrity screamed and fell backward into a lobster tank, where he was promptly attacked by sharp claws. Struggling to his feet, he ripped a lobster from his nose, tossed it aside, and checked his reflection using the back of a spoon. At the sight of his disheveled hair he screamed again, louder this time. With the headwaiter clinging to his arm, he stormed out, clutching his nose and hair.

  Just after the celebrity’s departure, the menacing figure of Trumper blocked the doorway. A chilling smile crossed his face as he spotted Shaun. His hand held a vicious-looking grabbing tool. The Animal Containment Officer strode across the restaurant and quickly taped off the area. His camera flashed; the word “CONTAINED” was stamped on the picture of a dazed Shaun. With professional efficiency, Trumper fastened the grabber around Shaun’s neck and pulled him roughly toward the exit.

  As he marched toward the door, Trumper noticed the attractive woman he had seen at the Animal Help shop earlier. He hesitated for a second, shuffling his feet. Then, with a shy smile, he placed his card on the plate in front of her.

  A few seconds later, Shaun was bundled into the back of Trumper’s van. Shocked and frightened, he peered out the back window, onto the busy street, and straight into the face of the Farmer.

  Shaun’s jaw dropped open, and his hooves drummed on the window as the van roared away.

  skidded to a stop. Leaping from the driver’s seat, the chauffeur pushed an old woman out of the way as he opened the back passenger door.

  The celebrity climbed out, glancing around nervously. Head ducked, he ran across the pavement, clutching his ruined hair, and barged through the door of an expensive hair salon.

  While the celebrity banged a fist on the reception desk, demanding an emergency restyle, the Farmer wandered up the street. Shuffling to a halt, he stared at his reflection in the salon’s window. Inside, the celebrity was ushered into a barber’s chair by the manager, who was wearing a name tag that read “Meryl.” Two stylists fussed and buzzed around, prodding the celebrity’s hair in horror.

  The Farmer blinked. Both stylists wore striped trousers and T-shirts covered in colorful splatters. Plastic festival bracelets hung from their wrists. Around their heads, each sported a headband.

  The Farmer looked down at himself. He, too, was wearing striped trousers. His hospital T-shirt was splattered with colorful splashes of food. Around his wrist was a plastic name-tag bracelet. He put his hand to his head and felt the bandage there.

  His gaze fell upon a pair of hair clippers swinging on the back of a chair. There was something about them . . . something familiar. An image flashed before his eyes: his own hands expertly wielding a pair of clippers.

  Unable to take his eyes off the clippers, he drifted toward the door.

  The celebrity closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the two stylists argued back and forth about which one of them should rescue his hair. Across the salon, Meryl barked an order. Obediently, the stylists scurried away from the celebrity and over to their boss.

  The door opened and closed.

  Unseen by Meryl or the arguing stylists, the Farmer picked up the hair clippers. He was dressed as if he worked in the salon, and the clippers settled snugly into his hand as if he’d used them a thousand times before.

  He looked down at the man in the barber’s chair.

  Eyes still closed, the celebrity clicked his fingers impatiently.

  Yes, the Farmer thought to himself. Reaching out, he swung the chair around.

  The celebrity blinked his eyes open to see a strange man standing over him with clippers in his hand.

  Before he could utter a sound, the Farmer grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and wrestled him to the floor. Keeping a tight grip, he straddled the celebrity and flicked the clippers on with his thumb. Oh, yes indeed, the Farmer thought to himself, happily, as hair flew past his ears. He had definitely done this before.

  Struggling in the Farmer’s grip, the celebrity shrieked.

  Meryl’s high-pitched scream echoed around the salon. Another customer looked up from a magazine, saw what was happening, and began to scream, too. At the door, the chauffeur saw his boss pinned to the ground by a clipper-wielding lunatic. His ear-piercing shriek added to the general screeching. An assistant stylist glanced up from washing another customer’s hair. Transfixed by the scene, he pushed the woman’s head underwater.

  The Farmer was almost finished. With a heave, he flipped the celebrity over. Hair flew again as he added a few finishing touches.

  The chauffeur grabbed him from behind. Shrugging the man off, the Farmer glanced down at the still-buzzing clippers in his hand, then looked around, dazed.

  No one looked back at him. Every pair of eyes in the salon was fixed on the celebrity, whose face twisted in an enraged snarl as he staggered to his feet. He opened his mouth to yell a torrent of abuse . . . and snapped it shut again.

  He had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He leaned closer, turning his head this way and that, and then gasped in delight. His new hairstyle — shaved around the sides with a rounded top — was fabulous!

  Breaking into a grin, the celebrity high-fived the Farmer and patted him on the back. He clutched the Farmer around the neck and rubbed his head affectionately. It was a super haircut and he loved the Farmer’s modern technique. Digging a wad of money from his pocket, he pressed it into a surprised Meryl’s hands.

  The salon burst into applause.

  Bemused, the Farmer looked around. Everyone seemed pleased. Slowly, a smile appeared on his face. It got wider when Meryl passed some of the money to him.

  The celebrity walked proudly to his limo, turning to shoot a dazzling smile at a fan who was clicking photos with his mobile phone. A few moments later, his car pulled away from the salon, where the Farmer was already working on his next customer.

  the window of Trumper’s van, still clutching Timmy’s teddy, his heart sinking as the van reversed through the entrance of the Animal Containment Center. Above the gate, a jolly sign showed happy animals playing in a sunny field. It was the only colorful thing Shaun could see. The building was a grim and gray prison, surrounded by wire fences. Fixed to walls and fence posts, security cameras turned slowly, watching every centimeter of the compound.

  The van stopped. Shaun blinked as the back doors opened and sunlight streamed in. Nearby, a door buzzed. Trumper dragged him out and into the main building, past cages full of animals. A fierce-looking rottweiler clutched metal bars, “BARK” and “BITE” tattooed across his paws. A poodle lay back, bench-pressing a barbell. From the corner of his eye, Shaun saw a cat with a cone around her neck sniff the air and hiss. Farther along, a tortoise slowly scratched a mark on the wall. Shaun noticed there were hundreds of marks already. A goldfish leaned against the glass wall of its bowl, playing a mournful tune on its harmonica.<
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  At last, Trumper stopped, keys clinking, in front of a small cell containing two bunks. Shaun’s eyes widened in fear. The cell was already occupied. A dim figure was slumped in the shadows, face to the wall.

  With a clank and a metallic whine, the door opened. Shaun’s pleading bleat was cut off when Trumper shoved him in and slammed the door. After twisting the key in the lock, the Animal Containment Officer strode away with a triumphant smirk.

  Shaun turned back to the dim figure with a gulp. The figure stayed where it was, growling quietly.

  Shaun squinted and gave a start, bleating in shocked surprise. The figure stepped into the light, rubbing his growling tummy.

  Shaun stared at Bitzer. Bitzer stared back at Shaun.

  Shaun couldn’t help noticing that the sheepdog did not look pleased to see him. In fact, he seemed downright peeved, shooting Shaun grim looks and muttering to himself. Remembering that if it hadn’t been for his big day-off plan everyone would be safely back at Mossy Bottom Farm, Shaun shuffled his feet, embarrassed. He threw himself onto the spare bunk, watching as Bitzer paced the cell. By now, the sheepdog was woofing angrily. If it weren’t for Shaun . . .

  On his bunk, Shaun sighed and stared out through the bars, then gasped in surprise. In the cage opposite was a face he knew — a face that was slightly lopsided. It belonged to the little dog he had seen being dragged away by Trumper at the bus station. Shaun smiled at her.

  The dog, named Slip, gave him a crooked smile in return.

  Bitzer was still woofing angrily. Shaun turned and bleated. It wasn’t all his fault. He had only been trying to give the sheep a nice day off. . . .

  The sheepdog interrupted with a bark. Shaun had come up with some crazy plans before, but this one had landed the whole farm in trouble — especially the Farmer.

  While Bitzer and Shaun argued, Trumper returned to his office. He pinned a photo of Shaun to a large board, alongside many other pictures of miserable-looking animals. At the top of the board, large letters spelled out the word “CONTAINED.” Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Trumper turned to face a mirror and drew his grabber the way a cowboy would, holding it toward the mirror. A smile broke out on his face: he was the best Animal Containment Officer in the business.