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He raised hell wherever he went, got into fights, stole in shops. Steve used to be what my mum calls a wild child. And not just because the names sound alike. Steve’s real surname was Leonard, but everyone called him Steve Leopard. Then I heard someone calling my name.ĭarren! Hey, Darren! Have you fallen in or what? So, there I was, humming, watching my watch, waiting. He doesn’t get mad if you trick him but he goes quiet and won’t speak to you for ages, and that’s almost worse than being shouted at. I wanted to join them but knew Mr Dalton would give out if he saw me in the yard so soon. I heard the bell ring for the end of class and everybody came rushing out on their lunch break. In the end, I didn’t get sick, but still felt queasy, so I stayed on the toilet. I wish every teacher was as understanding as Mr Dalton. Throw up whatever’s bugging you, Darren, he said, then get your behind back in here. He took one look at me when I raised my hand and said I was ill, then nodded his head and told me to make for the toilet. He’s smart and knows when you’re faking and when you’re being serious. My teacher, Mr Dalton, is great about things like that.
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I’d come in near the end of English class, feeling sick. I WAS in the toilet at school, sitting down, humming a song. But this is a real story, so I have to begin where it really started. If this was a made-up story, it would begin at night, with a storm blowing and owls hooting and rattling noises under the bed. I daren’t.Īnyway, that’s enough of an introduction. I’m not even going to tell you the name of my town or country. I haven’t used any real names, not mine, my sister’s, my friends or teachers. I’ve had to change them because… well, by the time you get to the end, you’ll understand. Everything’s true in this book, except for names.
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One more thing: my name isn’t really Darren Shan. I just wanted to make that clear before I began. It doesn’t care about heroes and happy endings and the way things should be. If you fall out of a tree, you break some bones. If you cross a busy road without looking, you get whacked by a car. In real life, vacuum cleaners kill spiders. They’ll beat the bad guys and put things right and everything ends up hunky-dory. It doesn’t matter what they do, because everything comes good at the end. In books, the heroes can make as many mistakes as they like. The thing about real life is, when you do something stupid, it normally costs you. Everything I describe in this book happened, just as I tell it. I don’t expect you to believe me – I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t lived it – but it is. One will become obvious as this book unfolds. I started with that tale from the past for two reasons. They said I was an irresponsible fool, and from that day on they never again let me have a pet, not even an ordinary garden spider. My parents nearly hollered the roof down when they found out what I’d done – the tarantula had cost quite a bit of money. My pet was dead, it was my fault, and there was nothing I could do about it. I cried a lot, but it was too late for tears. Needless to say, things didn’t happen quite like they did in the cartoon. He squeezed out of the bag, dusty and dirty and mad as hell. I’d been watching a cartoon in which one of the characters was sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. Gave it all sorts of treats: flies and cockroaches and tiny worms. I played with that spider almost every waking hour of the day. It wasn’t poisonous or very big, but it was the greatest gift I’d ever received. When I was nine, my mum and dad gave me a small tarantula. The baby spiders would hatch after a while and eat me alive, from the inside out. Going to sleep, I used to imagine the spider creeping down, crawling into my mouth, sliding down my throat and laying loads of eggs in my belly. I had one who made a cobweb above my bed and stood sentry for almost a month. Usually, the spider would slip away after no more than a day or two, never to be seen again, but sometimes they hung around longer. When I found one, I’d bring it in and let it loose in my bedroom. I’d spend hours rooting through the dusty old shed at the bottom of our garden, hunting the cobwebs for lurking eight-legged predators. I used to collect them when I was younger.