TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (14 page)

Over by the stage, one of the Gnomes in dungarees fell off a ladder with a resounding crash.

‘ONE-TWO!’ boomed the tattooed Zombie. ‘MORE VOLUME, DAVE. ONE-TWO!’

The Mayor winced. There was no way the preparations would be completed by sundown. In the morning, his desk would be awash with more complaining letters.

But he wasn’t going to be at his desk tomorrow, was he? He was going to be on spellovision. He was going to hobnob with superstars in a glittery tent. He was going to be a judge in an important music festival.

It was a shame he didn’t like music. But at least it would get him out of the office and into the limelight. You had to take the rough with the smooth.

The Ritz

TT stood in the foyer of the Ritz hotel, staring around. He liked what he saw. Potted plants. Marble statues. Swishy velvet curtains. Deep sofas. Soft piped music. Oh yes. This would do. This would do very nicely.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

The voice came from behind the polished reception desk. It belonged to a Ghoul in a suit. He had a long, pale face and looked like he polished his hair with boot blacking.

‘Your finest apartment for six,’ said TT, producing his Magic Card and slamming it down with a flourish. ‘I want a balcony, a trouser press and tea-making facilities. Oh, and a large spello to throw out of the window.’ The Ghoul raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, we might. Or we might not. We might just watch it. Either way, don’t worry, I’ll pay for any damage. As you see, I have this Magic Card.’

‘You have booked, I take it?’

‘What?’ TT mentally ran through his list of things to do. Booking the Ritz had been the last item. He had
meant
to do it, of course, but what with the excitement of getting the band van and the Magic Card and packing . . .

‘Well?’ The Ghoul stared at him, waiting.

‘Well – no,’ confessed TT. ‘It slipped my mind.’

‘Can’t be done, sir,’ sighed the Ghoul. ‘I don’t know if you are aware, but there is some sort of . . .
musical
activity happening tomorrow.’

‘The Battle of the Bands – yes, I know. That’s why we’re here. We’re
The Witchway Rhythm Boys
. You may have heard of us?’

‘No,’ said the Ghoul. ‘Not really my sort of thing. Anyway, we’re fully booked.’

‘Fetch the manager,’ said TT.

‘I
am
the manager.’

‘Oh. Right.’ TT scratched his head. ‘Well, I’m a manager too. As one manager to another, can’t we manage to sort this out?’

‘I cannot conjure rooms out of fairy dust, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. Important guests are arriving this evening.’

‘So what am I supposed to
do
?’ cried TT.

‘Well, you could try finding a bed and breakfast. But I don’t hold out too much hope at this late stage.’

‘Ah, come on!’ begged TT. ‘You must have space somewhere. There’s only six of us. Me, a Fiend, a Dragon, a Leprechaun, a Troll and a Werewolf. Oh, and my goldfish.’

‘No pets,’ said the Manager. ‘Hotel policy.’

‘He’s a fish, not a mountain lion.’

‘No pets.’

‘All right! All right, he’ll stay in the van. He’ll be all right for one night. Look, work with me here. I promised everyone we’d stay at the Ritz.’

‘Wish I could help, sir.’

‘I’m begging. I’ll get on my knees if you like.’

‘Go on, then,’ said the Ghoul. TT got down on his knees. The Ghoul inspected him. ‘No. Doesn’t help, sorry.’

It was stalemate. TT scrambled to his feet, snatched up the Magic Card and was just about to storm out when he thought of something else.

‘Suppose I pay double?’

‘No.’

‘Triple?’

‘Try again.’

‘All right,
four times
. Four times the usual amount.’

The Ghoul rolled his eyes and waited.

‘Five?’

The Ghoul waited.

‘OK then, six. Final offer.’

‘Ah!’ said the Ghoul. ‘I’ve just remembered. There
is
somewhere. You might just be able to squeeze in. But it doesn’t have a trouser press.’

‘TT’s taking his time,’ said Arthur.

The five of them sat in the van, staring out at the dark hotel car park. Well, all except Tallula, who had no window to look out of.

It had been a long journey and everyone was tired, achy and hungry. Filth’s cheese sandwiches hadn’t gone very far between six and nobody wanted any of Arthur’s mustard ones. Tallula’s biscuits hadn’t lasted long. The radio still refused to work. They had tried playing I Spy, but TT drove so fast that by the time they had spied something it had shot by, so they were limited to the van’s interior. D for Dragon. G for Goldfish. P for Pot. T for Troll. It had got really boring.

They had stopped three times, twice for O’Brian to be carsick and once to fill up with petrol at a small service station high up in the Misty Mountains. It was run by a bad-tempered Hobgoblin who charged the earth for egg rolls and mistook O’Brian for a Pixie. Otherwise, it was just long hours of relentless driving.

Their spirits had lifted when they finally reached the top of the mountains and caught a faraway glimpse of the sea – but it had taken another hour to reach Sludgehaven. The sun had already dipped below the horizon as they drove slowly through the town, looking for the Ritz. A full moon was rising over the rooftops. The streets were deserted. It seemed that the town’s residents believed in going to bed early.

‘Are you
sure
all the biscuits have gone, Tallula?’ asked Arthur.

‘Yes,’ said Tallula. ‘Sorry.’

Her biscuits had proved very popular, except with O’Brian, who had predictably choked on his and had to be thumped on the back.

‘Here he comes,’ said Arthur as TT came marching back triumphantly towards the van.

‘All right, everyone out,’ shouted TT. ‘It’s all sorted. I’ve got us a room. Not quite what I had in mind. No trouser press, I’m afraid. But it’s nice and cosy.’

A short while later, the six of them stood clustered in the doorway, examining the room.

‘This is it?’ enquired Arthur.

‘Yes,’ said TT. ‘This is it.’

‘It isn’t a bedroom. It’s the boiler room.’

‘Yes,’ said TT. ‘I know. It’s all they had.’

Everyone stared silently at the jungle of pipes that filled the room. A single light bulb dangled from a frayed flex, casting a dim light over the antique boiler that roared away in the middle. As well as containing the boiler, the room doubled as a dumping ground for the hotel junk – mouldering rolls of carpet, a pile of ancient mattresses propped against the wall, a heap of rusty old paint tins, boxes of chipped crockery.

‘It’s dirty,’ said Arthur. He ran a fastidious claw along a ledge. ‘See? Dirt. Cobwebs. Spiders.’

‘So what’s a spider or two between friends?’ cried TT. ‘Look on the bright side. At least we don’t have to waste energy wrecking it. Right, let’s get sorted. Chip, move those tins, find us a bit of floor space. We’ll get these mattresses spread out. Make ourselves comfortable, eh?’

Nobody made a move except Chip, who spat on his hands and set about kicking tins into corners.

‘I’ll take this one,’ announced TT, pouncing on the biggest mattress and dragging it as far away as he could from the raging boiler. ‘Come on, come on. It’s a bit like camping, right? Anybody ever camped? No? Well, I’m telling you, it’s a whole lot of fun.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ said Arthur.

‘Ah, come on. You’ll love it.’

‘No, I
won’t
,’ insisted Arthur. ‘I want clean sheets and a proper bed.’

‘Look,’ said TT. ‘Give me a break, eh? I’ve been driving all day. All right, I admit I should have booked in advance, but I can’t think of everything.’

‘That’s what a manager is supposed to do,’ said Arthur. ‘It wouldn’t have happened if
I
was running things.’

‘
Nothing
happened when you were running things,’ pointed out TT. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? And tomorrow we’re going to win the Battle of the Bands. What’s the big fuss? It’s only for one night.’

‘He’s right,’ said Filth. ‘Chill, Arthur, it’s a room, dude. It’ll do.’ He stepped into the room and began examining the pile of mattresses. ‘Hey, O’Brian, come and choose yours, man.’

O’Brian eyed the pile of mattresses without enthusiasm. He knew he’d end up with the worst one, so why bother?

Only Tallula remained hovering in the doorway. TT looked up, saw her and gave an exasperated sigh. Of course. She was a girl. Sure to make a fuss.

‘Something wrong?’ he enquired. ‘Not good enough for you?’

‘Not big enough, actually,’ said Tallula.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked round. She was right. There was no way she was going to fit in. None of the mattresses was long enough, for a start. And the room had a very low ceiling.

‘She’s got a point, man,’ said Filth. ‘Where’s Tallula gonna sleep, dude?’

‘It’s OK,’ said Tallula. ‘I’ll sleep in the van. I don’t mind.’

‘There you go!’ cried TT. ‘She’ll sleep in the van. Problem sorted.’

‘You sure, Tallula?’ said Filth.

‘Yes. I’ll be fine.’

‘Of course you will,’ said TT. ‘Oh – and see if you can rustle up a few sandwiches on your way out. Get a selection.’

‘Cheese for me,’ said Filth.

‘Chilli and mustard,’ said Arthur. ‘O’Brian?’

‘Don’t care,’ muttered O’Brian.

‘All right,’ said Tallula. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘
Sleep in the van
,’ said TT, as her footsteps padded away. ‘Ha!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Arthur.

‘Ah, come
on
. She’s a Werewolf, isn’t she? There’s a full moon out there. I’ll bet you anything you like she’ll be running over the clifftops baying at it, because that’s what Werewolves do.’

‘She said she, like, makes biscuits,’ said Filth.

‘Yes, I know. She
said
that. But the shops are closed now. Where will she get the ingredients?’

‘I don’t care what she does,’ said Arthur, ‘as long as she doesn’t wear her voice out for tomorrow.’