As we know, Dad was familiar with kennels, but now he really was in the doghouse. Mum was barely speaking to him.

‘Nora, I keep telling you!’ he pleaded. ‘Jams put the pants in the sandwich box!’

‘Jams would never do such a thing.’

‘Tell her, Jams!’ demanded Dad.

‘What, Dad?’ I replied, cunningly. ‘The whole story?’

That fixed Dad. Mum would not be pleased to hear about Thimble being taken to a school and left there.

‘Anyway,’ said Dad, ‘I tried to catch you, except…’

‘What was that?’ Mum exclaimed, interrupting him.

‘What?’ asked Dad.

‘Something just ran under the fridge,’ said Mum.

‘It did?’

‘I think it was a mouse.’

‘Did it have eight legs?’ I asked, like an idiot.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mum.

I had to think quickly. ‘A while ago I stapled two mice together,’ I blustered.

‘You did what?’

‘No, not stapled,’ I blabbed ‘What’s the word for when you fix two things together with a hair bobble?’

‘Jams,’ said Mum, sternly, ‘you’ve been spending too much time with your dad.’

‘I know, Mum,’ I replied.

‘Well, how about if you spend more time with Jams?’ suggested Dad. ‘You could take him to work with you, and, come to that, you could take Thimble too.’

Mum left without even bothering to respond to this idea.

‘Maybe we should get Thimble a job,’ I said.

‘Hmm,’ said Dad, thoughtfully.

‘It’s a joke, Dad,’ I explained.

‘Let’s think,’ said Dad. ‘What kind of job could a monkey do?’

‘No one’s going to employ a monkey!’

‘There’s a night club round the corner,’ Dad said. ‘They must have dozens of jobs there.’

‘Dad,’ I pleaded, ‘no one wants a monkey DJ.’

‘Why not? They could call him the Funkymonkey.’

‘Dad, you’re losing it!’ I said. ‘Why don’t you just buy him a guitar and call him the Punkymonkey!’

‘Do try to be serious, Jams.’

There was no arguing with Dad when he’d got his mind fixed on something. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to Jackals Nightclub accompanied by a puzzled-looking Thimble, his hair combed, his teeth brushed and his baggy shorts straightened.

A surprise awaited us. Around the nightclub was a tall plywood fence and a lot of men in hard hats looking busy. Through a gap in the fence we could see bulldozers and excavators. Jackals Night Club was about to be demolished.

‘What’s the chances of that?’ groaned Dad.

‘Nice vehicles,’ I muttered. In my mind I was climbing into one of those mighty machines, pulling the levers, feeling the power. Maybe I wouldn’t be a writer after all. Who wanted to sit at a PC when they could be smashing down a wall?

‘Hang on, Dad,’ I suggested. ‘Why can’t Thimble be a demolition worker? He’s already demolished half of Dawson Castle.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dad. ‘You have a point there.’

We sought out a big beardy man who seemed to be in charge of things. ‘Excuse me,’ said Dad. ‘Do you have any jobs?’

The beardy man looked Dad up and down. As usual, Dad was wearing his cravat and his Terry Pratchett hat. These showed people that Dad was an Author. Or a nerd. You can guess which the beardy man thought.

‘For you?’ he asked, dourly.

‘For the monkey,’ replied Dad.

The man turned his gaze on Thimble. When he looked back there was a strange grin on his face which I could not quite read. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said. ‘There’s ten thousand people looking for work in this town and you want me to give a job to a monkey?’

‘He’s very good with heights,’ said Dad.

‘Shaun!’ yelled the man. ‘Any work for a monkey?’

Another man came over, then a couple of others. Thimble was quite the centre of attention. There was much laughter and a few more of those grins I couldn’t quite read. The men took Thimble off and to Dad’s great delight put him in the cab of the excavator. The excavator driver let Thimble play with some levers while the others took pictures with their mobiles. It really was a happy scene, but just as we were about to head for home Thimble was brought back down and they all turned to Dad.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said the beardy man. ‘You’ve made our day. Now, could you get something for me?’

‘What’s that?’ asked Dad.

‘Lost,’ replied the beardy man. There was much laughter.

‘Get … lost?’ repeated Dad. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘Nice hat,’ said one of the other men, with a wink to me.

‘Thank you,’ replied Dad. ‘Come along, Thimble, we know when we’re not wanted.’

Summoning up as much dignity as possible, Dad took Thimble by the hand and we departed the scene. ‘By the way,’ Dad called back. ‘I’m a famous author. How many books have you written?’ It was amazing how brave Dad felt when he wore Terry Pratchett’s hat.

Back at Dawson Castle, Dad made a list of other jobs Thimble might apply for. Dad says it is good to make lists, because it feels like you have done something, even if you don’t actually do anything. Meanwhile, I searched half-heartedly for the tarantula and Thimble just sat around. He seemed quite miserable, which was not like Thimble at all. I wondered if he was pining for something, a mate maybe, or a tree he used to swing about in.

Time wore on, then on a bit more. I did some dumb odd jobs like putting the rubbish out. More time wore on till it was time for afternoon tea. I thought it might cheer Thimble up to have a custard cream, but when I offered him one he wasn’t there. I wandered through the castle calling his name, but no reply. Then I noticed that the portcullis was raised and the front gate left open, possibly by me when I took out the rubbish. Had Thimble left the castle? Why? And where would he have gone?

‘Dad!’ I cried. ‘Thimble’s gone a bit missing.’

Dad appeared, looking weary. ‘And?’ he said.

‘And hadn’t we better find him?’

‘Hmm…’ said Dad.

‘Well, I’m going to find him!’ I grabbed my coat and walker.

Dad followed. He knew how much trouble he’d be in if I got lost. We retraced the steps of our morning walk, in case the hard hats had caught sight of Thimble, who they were sure to remember. When we reached the demolition site, however, everything was shut and there was no sign of any one.

‘Must have clocked off for the day,’ said Dad.

‘Hang on.’ I pointed. ‘One of the diggers is still moving.’

Dad turned to see a vast yellow excavator looming over the plywood fence like a giant metal giraffe. ‘I say!’ he yelled, but there was no reply. The driver was busy at his controls. I say ‘his’ controls, but it was hard to tell at that distance whether it was a man. It could have been a woman, or even a child, because he or she did look rather small. And hairy. Remarkably hairy. Almost like a … a…

NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!

‘Thimble!’ I cried. ‘Get out of there!’

‘What?’ yelled Dad.

‘It’s Thimble, Dad!’ I said. ‘He’s in the…’

The excavator bucket smashed into the nearest wall, sending a cascade of bricks to the ground.

‘Good grief!’ cried Dad. ‘It is Thimble!’

‘The power’s gone to his head, Dad!’ I cried. ‘We’ve got to stop him!’

Dad put both hands round his mouth and yelled for all he was worth, ‘Thimble! Stop that this minute!’

Dad’s words were wasted. Thimble was determined to turn the rest of the building to rubble. The excavator arm swung wildly from side to side, bucket crashing into chimneys, walls, windows and doors.

‘Thimble!’ Dad yelled again. ‘Stop this minute or I’ll ring the police!’

‘Not the police, Dad!’ I pleaded, but right then a large portion of roof tumbled to the ground and Dad made good his threat.

‘Is it an emergency?’ came a dry voice.

‘It’s a monkey in an excavator,’ replied Dad. ‘What would you call it?’

‘Someone put a monkey in an excavator?’ asked the voice.

‘No, the monkey got in the excavator of his own accord,’ Dad said, ‘and now he’s demolishing a nightclub.’

There was a short silence. ‘A monkey is demolishing a nightclub?’ The voice didn’t sound at all convinced.

‘Yes, now send three cars and an armed response unit, and make it snappy!’

‘I must warn you,’ came the reply. ‘All prank calls are investigated and may result in a prison sentence.’

‘This is not a prank call!’ snapped Dad. ‘Why does nobody believe me? I didn’t put the pooey pants in my partner’s sandwich box either!’

The line went dead. I was glad about that. I decided to tell Thimble a little white lie.

‘Thimble!’ I cried. ‘The police say if you don’t stop, you’re going straight to the monkey tank!’ It was something I had made up, but it seemed to have some effect. The arm of the excavator stopped moving. The great mechanical beast swivelled on its shoes. The track began to move again, in the direction of the plywood fence.

Hells bells! The mad monkey was coming straight through!

SMA-A-A-A-A-SH!

Dad and I dived for cover as Thimble thundered over the remains of the fence and set off down the middle of the Dogsbridge Road. Cars swerved onto the pavement. Pedestrians leapt over garden walls. Vainly we gave chase, yelling, ‘Thimble! Stop!’ not that a sound could be heard over the churning engine and the grinding tracks.

It was not immediately obvious where Thimble was heading. He passed the Co-op supermarket and St Winifred’s Church Hall. He passed the library, the Goat’s Arms, Headers the barbers and Eccles the bakers. There was nowhere else to go except…

No! Not that! Anything but that!

Dad’s fumbling fingers pressed redial.

‘Is it an emergency?’ came a dry voice.

‘Yes!’ cried Dad. ‘The monkey … the one in the excavator … he’s heading for the police station!’

‘I have warned you once,’ said the voice.

SMASH! Thimble’s bucket tore a big chunk out of the top floor.

‘That’s him now,’ Dad said, and by way of reply, a line of coppers came flying out of the copshop door, just in time to see the next portion of their station tumbling to the pavement. It wasn’t long before the whole building was smashed to smithereens, Thimble was escaping over the rooftops, and Dad was supplying the police with the names of Thimble’s owners, our neighbours.