The Puffin Book of Horror Stories

    'You're growing up now, Sarah,' he'd said to me once, 'you must start to behave more like an adult. I also think it's about time you stopped playing with all those stupid gimmicky toys you litter your room with.'

    He always went on and on about how we were slaves of the 'consumer society' as he called it, and how I was a mindless dingbat to go along with it all.

    That was a joke coming from a middle-aged bloke who thought he was really IT.

    Me? I just liked freebies, that was all.

    Dad hated the fact that the old Chinese prune had given me another toy. The joke was on him though: he'd bought me the batteries to go with it!

    As we walked down Charing Cross Road I turned the little plastic tag case over in my hand. I wondered at first why a key-ring needed batteries, but then I realized what it was.

    In gold lettering on one side was a line of Chinese letters; beneath that in English it simply said 'Chang's Quality Woks, Brewer Street, London, England (main distributors)'.

    On the other side of the tag it said 'Key-Finder'.

    The little yellow paper stuffed inside the base explained it all in sentences my teacher wouldn't have liked: Kee-Finder will nether let yuu down if kees yuu lose or mislay. Just whistle. If yor keys are within a 30' radios our tag will immeddiately return call with a serees of clere tones.

    It was one of those lost-key locators. I was really pleased.

    I couldn't wait to try it out.

    Dad wanted to go into a bookshop near the National Gallery, 'Better Books'. He wanted to get Mum (or Mary) another present. I followed him in while trying to fit the pill-shaped batteries into the base of the key tag.

    The shop was jam-packed. Christmas shoppers, cookery books and pictures of the Royal Family everywhere.

    A lady in the shop, with glasses and a bun on the back of her hair, pinned a big round yellow badge on my coat lapel. She asked me if I liked books and wished me happy Christmas. There was a miniature book stuck in the centre of the badge, the size of a postage stamp. It opened, with pages like a real book. Above this was the message: Better books are Better!

    It was a really good freebie. I hadn't seen one like that before.

    Dad took my badge off when he saw it, and slapped it down on the counter. The lady with the bun glared at him.

    Dad (or Jim if we're into parent-speak), was getting himself all worked up again. Mumbling about me being an easy target, a sucker for it all.

    He bought a hi-fi magazine on the way out of the shop, and there was a freebie stuck to the cover with a bit of Sellotape. A Hi-fi Casebook pencil sharpener. It was clever. A little plastic compact disc with the sharpener on the other side of the spindle hole. On the way home he never lifted his head out of his precious hi-fi magazine once! Typical. He's just as much of a consumer-head as everyone else!

    He wouldn't let me whistle on the bus, but when we got off at Brixton Hill I tried to get the Key-Finder to work.

    So I whistled. I whistled at it, whistled in it, practically took the thing apart. Nothing.

    Dad got mad, which was really ironic considering all the fuss he'd been making about the thing, said he'd a mind to go all the way back to Soho and give the man his batteries back.

    I wasn't that bothered. After all, it had been free, it looked pretty and I could still put my keys on it if I wanted to.

    But I had another idea, another use for it.

    'Are you going to chuck it?' asked Dad as we turned into our drive, past the dustbins.

    I shook my head.

    Dad stopped and turned on his heels. A single finger was lifted.

    I'm warning you, are you listening, young lady? You leave Dylan alone, he's got a hard enough life as it is trying to survive in the Brixton Hill gardens with all that other nonsense you've fixed on the poor little devil's collar!'

    I just smiled, politely, and then shoved the key tag deep into ray coat pocket. Dad could be such a pain.

    Dylan was scratching himself on the porch mat as we walked up the path.

    The front door opened. Mum (or Mary) stood in the doorway.

    She didn't look good. I sighed.

    Dad (or Jim) was making caustic comments in the living-room about how the Christmas booze seemed to be prematurely lowering its level. The surface line in the large bottle of Gordon's, which sat on the Habitat trolley, was certainly nearing the bottom.

    Even I noticed that.

    But then again, Mum was depressed.

    I spent my time out in the kitchen trying to make the key tag work, but it wouldn't give out so much as a peep. Dylan had struggled into the kitchen too.

    Mum and Dad were rowing again and Dylan wanted to get out of their way.

    I didn't blame him.

    Dad was making the usual fuss about how she had to pull herself together, she'd a family (and him) to look after, just because Edith's number had come up we didn't have to spend the entire Christmas in mourning.