Every morning on the way to school Tom walked past Hunnibal the bakers on the High Street. Except he never actually walked past it. The aroma of freshly baked white rolls, sweet sticky doughnuts and hot pies filled with meat and gravy drew him in. He wasn’t some kind of animal when it came to eating either. People always thought that if you were fat you had no sense of control, no decorum. Tom would sit on a bench in the park and take time to savour his chosen treat- usually a pasty or a bacon roll in the morning, cakes and biscuits were better suited to late afternoon. He relished the soft golden flakes of pastry melting on his tongue like little shots of morning sun, he delighted in the surprising crunch of salty fried bacon between soft, floury bread…yes, he really loved his food.

"Hi Tom…hang on a minute, I’ve got something to show you." Tom groaned inwardly as he reversed back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where his Mum was standing, grinning inanely. He saw the Tesco carrier bags around her feet.

"It’s not another low calorie ready meal is it, or half-fat cheese? I’ve told you, it tastes of cr…"

"Tom! Language!" his Mum interjected. "No, it’s something in the local paper, here have a look."

"I’ve told you before; I’m not joining Weight Watchers!" Tom despaired of Mum’s good-natured but none too subtle attempts to get him to lose weight. Slimming clubs, saunas, hypnotism… Last week she’d bought one of those weird vibrating belts from Argos. Basically, you strapped yourself in and turned it on, and miraculously it broke down the fat. Tom had refused to even try it and told her to take it back. He sighed and looked at the paper.

"Local MP slams supermarket expansion? Schoolgirl in wheelie trainer horror?"

"No, at the bottom of the page. The competition." She jabbed the paper with her finger.

"Upper Throckton Pie Eating Contest? Are you taking the pi… mickey?"

"No, I thought you might be interested. The person who eats the most pies wins five hundred pounds."

Five hundred? Tom had never dreamt of having that kind of money all to himself. He had fifty-two pounds in his savings account when he last checked, and he was only allowed to take money out of that when they went on holiday.

"Er… I don’t know Mum. Anyway, you’re always trying to get me to eat healthy. Last year’s winner ate thirty-four pies in five minutes. Not exactly healthy is it? And talk about drawing attention to yourself. My mates will piss themselves". It didn’t make sense, Mum wanting him to eat an obscene amount of pies, even by his standards.

"No need to be crude Tom. Well, I think it’s a great idea - a chance to shine at something you’re really good at. I’ll pay the entrance fee."

Turned out Jensen thought it was a great idea too- "ace" in fact. He’d been to a pie-eating contest in America when he was on holiday with his family the summer before and he reckoned it was a right laugh. People took it really seriously there and the prizes were even bigger. Thinking he had nothing to lose, Tom filled in the form in the paper and sent it off with a cheque for ten pounds from Mum. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Mum was up to something, but he couldn’t work out what. Tom marked the date on the calendar in the kitchen: Sunday 21^st May, three and half weeks’ time. It was the last day of the Upper Throckton festival. The street carnival was on the Saturday night and then there was a big fair planned on the cricket green for the Sunday. The pie-eating contest was to take place at three, after the morris dancing display.

The day of the fair was bright and unseasonably warm. Tom, Jensen and a couple of other boys sat on the mound overlooking the green, laughing at the morris dancers.

"It’s quarter to, fat boy; do you think you should be warming up?" Jensen poked Tom’s belly.

"Guess I should be heading over there. See you lot later." Tom got up and walked down to the staging area.

By three o’clock, all nine contestants were sat at the trestle tables with large white napkins tied around their necks. Eight male, and one female, Mrs Hunnibal from the baker’s. Mr Hunnibal was providing the pies. The tables were also dressed in white, with a glass of water by each contestant. Nine assistants, in the shape of boy scouts from the local troop, stood by, each holding a pile of five pies, waiting for the off. Their job was to run between their allocated contestant and the catering tent behind, replenishing pies, five at a time. Quite a crowd had gathered, and Tom could see his Mum and Dad, waving in a very embarrassing manner. He knew they wouldn’t stop until he acknowledged them, so he half raised a hand in their direction. A hush had fallen over the green as all eyes were on Reverend Brown, who was overseeing the contest.

"Place the pies please." The Reverend instructed and the scouts approached the tables and placed the towers of pies in front of the contestants.

"Ready, steady…go!"

Tom grabbed the first pie from the top of the pile and shoved it ungraciously in his mouth. Flakes of pastry stuck to his chin and nose. Mmm, mince and onion, he thought to himself as he quickly chewed and swallowed. And so to the next one… and the next. Tom used both hands to scoop up each pie and squeeze it into his mouth, sometimes reaching for the glass of water and taking gulps to try and swill it all down. Occasionally Tom glanced up at the clock on the cricket score board and then around at his fellow pie-eaters. He could tell he was doing well. Mrs Hunnibal was looking decidedly green and one of the more elderly contestants had given up only a minute in. Tom carried on, troughing up the pies like a farmyard animal. He could hardly taste the pies as they went down; it was the winning that was important now. From time to time he felt his stomach contract and acid rise in his throat, but he just drank some water and swallowed it down.

"And …stop!" The Reverend’s voice boomed. "Scouts, please could you come to me with the scores. A period of whispering, adding up and rustling paper followed. Tom looked along the line of competitors. Mrs Hunnibal, immediately on his left, was a shade only slightly paler than the cricket pitch. Her shoulders were jerking up and down and she kept making swallowing movements even though she wasn’t eating any more. The other contestants were all looking expectantly in the direction of the Reverend and his helpful Scouts. Tom felt his stomach contract, either from excitement or too many pies, as the Reverend nodded in thanks to the boys and stepped forward. He ceremoniously cleared his throat.

"And the winner is…TOM GOODFELLOW! Congratulations Tom!"

Tom was thrilled and leapt up out of his seat. Not a wise move, as a wave of nausea swept over him and he sat down again. He gulped down the rising acid in his throat. He must look a complete mess. Bits of pie were everywhere- in his hair, caked over his face and hands. He saw his Dad jumping up and down like a lunatic. His Mum staying sitting, a strange half-smile on her face. Tom was too caught up in the moment to waste time analysing it. Five hundred quid he thought five hundred quid! A new bike maybe, no a DVD player, or maybe both!

The next day, Tom took his usual route to school. He walked in a bit of a daze, still thrilled about his win and planning his spending spree. He stopped outside Hunnibal’s. He walked in and paused, trying to decide what to have. Funny thing was, he didn’t’ fancy either a pasty or a bacon roll. Maybe a cheese twist would be better. No, he didn’t feel like that either.

"What can I get you dear? Oh and well done on the competition."

"Thanks Mrs Hunnibal. Mmm, actually, I don’t think I’m hungry." The words shocked Tom as much as Mrs Hunnibal.

Tom left the shop empty handed and headed for the park. He felt strange, different somehow. Then it struck him. For the first time in his life, Tom Goodfellow had lost his appetite.