‘What do you want?’ said Archie, recovering himself. ‘Haven’t you got a handbag to go to?’

Garstigan looked fearsome – with his pointy teeth, bat-like wings and yellow eyes – but Archie knew the little monster wasn’t a threat. It was his keeper, Mrs Puddingham-Pye, who was the real problem. Garstigan lived in her large, black handbag, and she sent him out to do her nefarious bidding.

The mobgoblin stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

‘The bratling should be pleased to see Garstigan,’ he said. ‘Garstigan has brought a treat for him.’

‘Really?’ said Archie, unconvinced. Garstigan looked offended.

‘The roly-poly porklings are having a birthday party –’ Archie couldn’t help smiling at this unkind reference to the twins – ‘and the bratling is invited. He is most honoured.’

Garstigan haughtily handed him a sugar-pink envelope with Urchin written on it (Mrs Puddingham-Pye could never remember Archie’s name).

‘There will be cake, and other yummy things that the porklings like to munch upon but make them fat and give them greasy spots and smelly, farty bottoms.’ The creature giggled, then added daintily: ‘Dress code is “smart casual”.’

‘It sounds delightful,’ said Archie drily.

‘There will also be party gamesss,’ Garstigan added, hissing the words in the same tone he might use for torture.

Archie shuddered. Georgie and Portia’s idea of party games would probably be ‘Pass the Poison’ or ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’, where Archie was the donkey and the pin was a very large knife.

‘You must be joking!’ he said. ‘I suppose they want me to get them a present too?’

‘Ooh, yes, yesss! Lots of pressies. With shiny paper and ribbons. Noisy toys and things that pop out and surprise you and make little bratlings chuckle. Like scorpionsss. Or dynamite. Or scorpionsss with dynamite.’

‘No way am I going to this,’ Archie said. ‘I may as well be going to my own funeral!’ He threw the invitation back at Garstigan. The Puddingham-Pyes must be up to something and he wasn’t falling for it. All I want is a normal life for a while, he thought. A bit of peace and quiet.

The mobgoblin gurgled unhappily. Then it flapped its wings and kicked away from the step, hovering in front of Archie’s face. ‘The mistress will be displeased, bratling,’ Garstigan spat. ‘The mistress will be very, very displeased!’ And with that he flew away into the sky, muttering miserably to himself.

Archie sighed and wearily pushed open the surgery door.

‘You’ll be seeing our new dentist, Mr McBudge,’ said the receptionist when Archie gave her his name. He hadn’t been waiting long when a tall, handsome man in a white surgical smock appeared in the doorway of the waiting room.

‘Mr McBudge, is it?’ said the man, flattening his black hair. His skin was so smooth it looked like it had been polished, and he flashed a smile so unnaturally white and even that it could have been chiselled from a block of soap. ‘I’m Edward Preen. It will be my privilege to care for your canines, investigate your incisors and maintain your molars this afternoon, ha ha!’ The man ushered Archie into his room and gestured towards the large chair at its centre. ‘Have no fear, young sir, even though you find yourself in the enemy camp, as it were, ha ha!’

Archie smiled politely as he settled into the chair. He’d always looked after his teeth, even more so after he inherited the chocolate factory. There was no point having a constant supply of sweets if your teeth were too rotten to eat them. But he knew some dentists might take a dim view of the McBudge family business. Mr Preen loomed over him, his eyes staring over the top of his face mask.

‘Open wide,’ said the dentist. Archie felt the metal explorer tapping around his jaw. ‘How strange that we should meet on my very first day in Dundoodle,’ said Mr Preen as he worked. ‘It must be fate.’

‘Awg?’ said Archie, screwing up his eyes under the dentist’s lamp.

‘Indeed. For it is in Dundoodle that I intend to launch my campaign, this very week.’

‘Awgaggawg?’

‘What campaign, you ask? A campaign to rid the world of the poison of sweets and chocolate and fudge, to drive out all that is unwholesome and unclean.’

‘Awgkeen?’ Mr Preen’s eyes glowed steely-blue and Archie could sense there was a cold, perfect smile underneath the mask.

‘Yes!’ said the dentist. ‘I believe it is my mission in life to make the world safe for children to grow up in. I want to make the world … nice.’

‘Aigh?’ Archie’s head began to ache and he felt himself begin to panic. He realised he was trapped, at the mercy of this increasingly sinister man. He gripped the arms of the chair as the dentist scraped the metal tool along a tooth, like fingernails against a blackboard.

‘N.I.C.E. Normal, Inoffensive, Cleansing and Educational. If it is not N.I.C.E, then it is naughty. Naughtiness will not be tolerated. And what is naughtier than a factory devoted to making sweets? Your business is very, very naughty. I have you in my sights, young Mr McBudge. Now rinse and spit, please.’

Archie furiously spat the pink mouthwash into a basin.

‘I can’t make people eat sweets, any more than you can force them to stop,’ he spluttered angrily. ‘You have to let people have a choice!’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Edward Preen, calmly smoothing his hair back again as Archie walked quickly for the door. ‘You’ll be seeing more of me, Mr McBudge, ha ha.’