TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (12 page)

‘Thought you were going to cut it off?’

‘I was, but there’s something odd about the material. The scissors won’t go through. Or the leather knives, or the shears. I hacked away for hours, but all the tools went blunt.’

‘Well, there’s gotta be a reason. Hey! TT!’ Filth raised his voice. ‘Like, what’s with O’Brian’s T-shirt, man? He still can’t get it off. Dude’s stuck in it.’

TT shrugged, clearly uninterested. He had the new camera mounted on its tripod and was shaking out the cloth.

‘I’m just thinking,’ mumbled O’Brian, trying to sound casual, ‘just wondering if there might be – I don’t know, I know it sounds weird, but it’s almost like there might be some sort of – um –
curse
on it. Or something.’

‘Rubbish,’ snorted Sludgegooey, who had sidled up and was listening. She considered herself an expert on such matters. ‘A curse on a T-shirt! I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘Whoever would put a curse on a T-shirt, O’Brian?’ agreed Arthur. ‘You haven’t upset any Witches or anything, have you?’

‘We’d do more than curse his T-shirt,’ said Sludgegooey.

O’Brian bit his lip. He had already said too much. Confessing that he’d lost the goodwill of the Fairies was hardly likely to endear him to the present company. Right now, they needed all the luck they could get.

There came the sound of the van doors slamming. Chip had finished the loading.

‘Where’s the We— Tallula?’ asked TT.

‘We’re picking her up in the mountains,’ explained Arthur. ‘That’s where her cave is. She said she wanted to wash her hair. That takes a while, apparently. There’s rather a lot of it.’

‘I do like a nice head of hair,’ said Arthur’s mum happily.

‘Ye-e-e-e-s,’ said Arthur. ‘Not all of it’s on her head, of course. But she can certainly sing,’ he added hastily. ‘That’s what really matters.’

‘How did the rehearsals go?’ asked TT, ducking under the cloth. ‘She do all right?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Arthur. ‘She did better than all right.’

And she had. She had done better than any of them could imagine. Tallula was a natural. Not only did she know all their old Crash ’n’ Bang tunes, she had ideas for new ones. Her little black book was bursting with good words for songs. The minute she started humming, you just
knew
how it should go. Everything fitted together like a dream. The time had flashed by. The Boys had never enjoyed rehearsing so much.

‘Good,’ said TT. ‘Well, she won’t be in the photograph, but that’s probably no bad thing. Chip, get Gareth from the dashboard. I want him in this too. Everybody close up together in front of the van. Band and supporters. Big smiles.’

‘I won’t have my photo taken right now, if you don’t mind,’ said O’Brian. He knew he didn’t look his best. Besides, he was the only one who didn’t have any supporters to wave him off. That made him feel a bit left out.

He climbed in the van and settled himself down with the Pot cradled on his lap while everyone else had their picture taken.

‘That’s it!’ cried TT. He handed the camera to Chip, who threw it in the back of the van, breaking one of the tripod legs. ‘Let’s hit the road!’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Sludgegooey, relieved. ‘Off you go, then, Filth. See you Sunday, with the cheque.’

‘Good luck, son,’ said Arthur’s mum and gave him a motherly hug.

TT climbed into the driver’s seat. Carefully, he re-stuck Gareth’s bowl on the dashboard and started the engine. Filth squeezed in beside O’Brian. Arthur and Chip took the seats behind.

‘What’s with the fish, man?’ enquired Filth. ‘I gotta ask. Is it, like, a mascot?’

‘Oh, Gareth is much more than that,’ said TT. ‘My Aunty Maureen gave him to me. He’s family.’

‘Ridiculous idea,’ snorted Arthur. ‘Bringing a goldfish on tour.’

‘Just because he’s a fish it doesn’t mean he can’t have opinions,’ said TT. ‘I talk to him all the time. He’s a very good listener. Very wise, actually.’

‘You’re saying it’s – what, some sort of fish
oracle
?’ sneered Arthur.

‘Believe me, fish are deep. There’s more to Gareth than you think.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Arthur.

‘Well, you don’t have to believe me,’ said TT, ‘but don’t call him
it
– he doesn’t like it. Right, everybody, seat belts on!’

The engine revved – Arthur’s mother waved a handkerchief – Sludgegooey held up her GUD LUK sign. The Banshees produced colourful pompoms, brandished their banner and began chanting a little cheerleader ditty they’d composed. It went:

‘Off on tour so toodle-ooo!

Good luck, Filth, ’cos we love you!’

Filth didn’t notice because he was fiddling with the knobs on the radio.

And they were off!

In the Van

Tallula stood in the shadow of a tall tree, waiting to be picked up. The day was warming up and she wasn’t a great one for sunshine, which made her hair greasy. She had washed it the night before, using a whole family-sized bottle of shampoo. She wondered if anyone would notice the difference. Probably not.

At her feet was a small suitcase. She had packed and repacked it three times, although there wasn’t much to put in. She had no clothes apart from her frock, which she had never liked but always wore because she hated shopping. She had put in her hairbrush, her toothbrush, her little black book, her pencil and a paper bag full of moon-shaped biscuits. She intended to hand them round during the journey.

Tallula hardly ever left her cave in daylight, let alone set off on a trip which would involve singing in public in a big field in faraway Sludgehaven, which she had never visited. Werewolves aren’t great ones for the seaside. When they do go on holiday – a rare event – they spend most of the time trying to come up with the name of a friend to send a postcard to. Tallula wondered about sending a card to her friend Shirley, who she hadn’t seen since they had fallen out over a hairbrush when they were six. Then she remembered that she didn’t have an address.

There came the sound of a blaring horn and the band van came screaming up the track in a cloud of dust. Tallula took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine and gave a wave.

The van squealed to a halt. The window rolled down and TT’s head popped out.

‘Hop in!’ he shouted.

‘Right!’ called Tallula. ‘Er – where?’

There was only one seat spare but she saw at once that there wasn’t room for her long limbs.

‘It’ll have to be in the back, with the instruments.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Tallula walked round to the back and wrenched open the doors. The back was pretty much filled with equipment, but there was a dark space between the piano and drums into which she could just about squeeze, if she folded her knees and kept her head down.

‘Hurry up,’ shouted TT. ‘We’re pressed for time.’

Tallula climbed into the van and fitted herself into the cramped space with difficulty.

Filth stopped fiddling with the radio, looked over his shoulder and said, ‘You all right back there, Tallula?’

‘Fine,’ said Tallula. ‘Just fine.’

She wasn’t, actually. There were no windows, it was dark and stuffy and the piano pedals dug painfully into her back, but she didn’t want to cause a fuss.

The van jerked forward and her head banged sharply on the roof. She huddled down lower, wishing she had a cushion.

‘What d’you think of the van, then?’ howled TT over the noise of the engine.

‘Great!’ shouted Tallula. The van picked up speed, bumping over stones and finding every pothole. It came out as ‘G-g-great!’

‘Like the wording on the side?’

‘I d-do,’ said Tallula. Although she had noticed that her own name was conspicuous by its absence. She had a feeling that she would have to prove herself before
and a Werewolf Girl
was added.

‘You missed having your photo taken,’ bellowed TT.

‘That’s all r-right.’

Tallula was glad about that. She hated having her photo taken with normal-sized people. Either she stood up straight and her head got chopped off, or she crouched down to everyone else’s height, which just looked silly.

‘O’Brian wouldn’t have his taken either,’ said Arthur. ‘He’s camera-shy.’

O’Brian glared morosely out of the window and hugged his Pot. The seat he had chosen had a spring sticking up. He was trying to sit with his knees bent to one side to avoid it but he knew it was only a matter of time before it ripped his trousers.

A horrible crackling noise filled the air. Filth had got the radio working. He fiddled with the knobs and the crackling was replaced by a smooth voice.

‘. . . 
and a fine sunny day everywhere, especially at Sludgehaven-On-Sea, where temperatures have reached an all-time high. The time is ten o’clock. You have been listening to the weather forecast with Michael Prawn and it’s now over to DJ Benny Bonkers for Bonkers’ Half Hour!
’

At this point a new, shrill, overexcited voice took over.

‘
Hey! Thanks very much, Michael, and hi there, boys and girls! H-e-e-e-re’s Benny, all ready to play your favourite sounds! Let’s hope the good weather lasts for tomorrow, when I’m off to sunny Sludgehaven for the Battle of the Bands. Talking of that, we’ll start with one of the competing groups. Rodney and the Rattles are in the studio, boys and girls! Hey, Rodney, great to have you here. Feeling confident?
’

There was a pause. Then a third voice spoke. It had a sneering, unpleasant quality.

‘
Well, obviously
.’

‘
Good, good, great, terrific! Five bands are entering. Feel threatened by the competition?
’

‘
No
.’