TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (15 page)

Tallula padded through reception. Nobody was behind the desk. She was just about to ring the bell when she saw the sign. It said:

ROOM SERVICE CANCELLED.

FAMOUS CELEBRITIES EXPECTED.

Some hotel
, thought Tallula. She wondered whether to go back and tell the Boys – but what was the point? They would find out soon enough. Besides, she needed to get out.

She stepped through the big doors and paused on the top step to take in the night. It was cool. It was dark. The huge moon hung in the sky. There was nobody around. It was the perfect night for a long, leisurely run. In the distance, she could hear the swish of the sea. Somewhere, there would be high cliffs.

Should she? She was certainly tempted.

But, no. It was a big day tomorrow. Better to stick with a short jog, maybe along the promenade. Shake out all the aches, breathe some good sea air, then crawl into the van and hopefully get some sleep.

She padded down the steps and set off at an easy lope.

No sooner had she gone than a long, low limousine came purring up the street.

Consulting the Oracle

‘I hope Gareth’s all right,’ said TT. ‘He seemed a bit quiet when we left him.’

There was a little pause while everyone thought about this. They were all spread out on their mattresses. Arthur had fastidiously covered his with a million tissues and was trying to keep his tail from touching the floor. Filth lay on his back, eyes closed, tapping out a little rhythm on his tummy. O’Brian was curled around his Pot. Only Chip was asleep and giving out deep, gravelly snores. Occasionally he gave a little jerk and muttered ‘Uh? Uh!’ Obviously having some sort of Trollish dream conversation.

‘He’s always quiet,’ said Arthur, after a bit. ‘He’s a fish.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’s not communicating.’

‘So
you
say.’

‘Well, it’s true. Watch the bubbles.’

Arthur was feeling argumentative and wasn’t prepared to let this go.

‘Why? What’s in the bubbles?’

‘Everything. Say anything you like and he’ll give you feedback.’

‘Feedback!’ snorted Arthur. ‘
Feedback!
What about you, O’Brian? Have
you
noticed anything in Gareth’s bubbles apart from regurgitated ant eggs? The Meaning Of Life, perhaps?’

O’Brian said nothing. He was at an all-time low. Curled up in a sullen ball of misery on the worst mattress, which of course was full of lumps and bumps and had springs sticking out
everywhere
. Hugging his Pot. Imprisoned in a pink T-shirt, trousers torn, hot, queasy and plagued with a guilty secret. Right now, he didn’t want to get drawn into the conversation. If he spoke, he might break down and blab it all out.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you,’ went on Arthur. ‘He’s just a fish.’

‘You’re wrong,’ insisted TT earnestly. ‘I should know – I live with him. He’s not at all judgemental. It’s a big comfort to get things off your chest to Gareth. He’s got his head screwed on the right way.’

‘Just as well,’ smirked Arthur. ‘If it was on the wrong way, he’d be facing his tail.’

‘You can laugh,’ said TT. ‘Oh yes, you can laugh.’

‘Man, it’s
hot
in here,’ sighed Filth.

It was too. Even for Fiends and Dragons, who like the warmth. Hot, crowded and uncomfortable. The boiler was blasting out heat like there was no tomorrow. Above their heads, the pipes rattled and banged in a cacophony of dodgy plumbing.

‘No sign of the sandwiches,’ said Arthur irritably. ‘D’you think Tallula forgot to ask?’

‘I’ll bet she did,’ said TT. ‘Got her mind on other things. Mark my words, she’s up howling on the cliff right now. Once a Werewolf always a Werewolf. I don’t care what she says, I know how the moon takes ’em.’

‘Well, it’s not my job to get the sandwiches,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re the one with the manager’s hat on.’

‘I’ve been driving all day,’ said TT. ‘I got us a van and a roadie and a Magic Card, didn’t I? I’m going to make you famous, right? I’ve managed to get us here and managed to get us a room. I’ve managed enough.’

‘Take the hat off, then.’

‘No,’ said TT firmly. ‘The hat stays on. O’Brian? What about you?’

O’Brian hugged his Pot to his chest and said nothing.

‘I’ll go,’ said Filth. ‘Could do with a breath of fresh air anyway.’

‘You do that,’ agreed TT. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starving. Big day tomorrow. Need to keep our strength up. Oh – and just look in on Gareth, would you? I don’t want him to feel he’s been abandoned.’

Filth strolled into the foyer, which was a scene of great activity. Bellboys, maids and porters were scuttling around in a state of hysterical excitement. The source of the fuss was a tall figure dressed in a black silk robe lined with scarlet. He was surrounded by shiny suitcases and talking to the Ghoul at the reception desk. Although it was night-time, he was wearing sunglasses.

Filth knew who this was, of course. Scott Sinister, star of stage and screen. Everyone recognised
him
.

Most people would be impressed to be in the presence of one so famous, but Filth was one of those rare types who wasn’t. He had a nifty little riff going around in his head that was far more interesting.

Everyone seemed a bit busy, so Filth decided to wait before enquiring about sandwiches. He would steer clear of the desk, pop out and cool down a bit, check on Gareth, then collar the manager on the way back in, when he wasn’t so busy.

He stepped through the glass doors into the fresh night air. The full moon was wonderful. If TT was right and Tallula was off somewhere howling at it, he hoped it was doing her a power of good.

The band van was in the car park, next to a long, sleek limousine.

Filth sauntered over, pulled open the van door and climbed in.

The bowl sat on the dashboard in a pale shaft of moonlight. Gareth was suspended in the middle, fins gently moving, tail swishing slowly from side to side, looking inscrutable.

Filth leaned in close. He said, ‘Hey. You OK, fish dude?’

There was a long pause where nothing happened. Then –

From out of Gareth’s gaping mouth appeared a bubble. A big, cheery-looking bubble. It shot to the surface and popped in a minuscule explosion of air.

PLOP!
Just like that.

‘Yeah,’ said Filth happily. ‘Me too.’

Well, he was. Tomorrow he would be playing Crash ’n’ Bang to a big audience in a big field, in the sunshine. For Filth, it was all about the music.

‘So what about the sandwiches?’ asked Arthur querulously as Filth came strolling back into the boiler room, which was hotter than ever. ‘Are they sending them?’

‘No,’ said Filth. ‘There’s, like, a notice? Room service cancelled.’

‘Cancelled?’ Arthur exploded upright, sending his carefully placed tissues flying.

‘That’s what it said.’ Filth threw himself back on to his mattress.

‘You didn’t complain to the manager?’

‘Dude was busy. Scott Sinister’s just arrived.’

‘What?’ gasped TT, sitting bolt upright. ‘Scott Sinister?
Really?
Staying
here
? Why didn’t you
say
?’

‘I just did.’

‘Oh my!’ TT was beside himself with excitement. ‘Wow! Hear that, boys? I love Scott Sinister! Those
Killer Poodle
films are
ace
! Arthur? O’Brian? Hear that? I’ve booked us into the same hotel as Scott Sinister!’

‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ said Arthur. ‘I wonder which room he’s got? The broom cupboard, perhaps?’

‘D’you know what I’m thinking?’ went on TT. ‘I’m thinking he’s one of the Mystery Celebrities on the judging panel. It’d make sense if I went out there and introduced myself, don’t you think? Shake his hand, tell him we’re all big admirers, ask him to vote for us . . .’

‘No,’ said Filth firmly. ‘Wouldn’t be cool, dude.’

‘Oh. Well, perhaps you’re right. Did you check on Gareth?’

‘Yeah. Says he’s OK.’

‘Good,’ said TT. ‘I thought he would be.’

There was a pause.

‘What d’you mean, he
says
he’s OK?’ said Arthur.

‘He’s OK, OK?’ Filth gave a yawn. ‘Kinda excited about tomorrow, a bit on edge, but looking forward to it, you know? Sends everyone his regards.’

‘I see,’ sneered Arthur. ‘That’s what he
said
, is it?’

‘You see?’ said TT. ‘I told you. Where are you going?’ Arthur had climbed off his mattress and was heading out of the door.

‘Where do you think? I’m going to complain to the management. The service here is terrible.’

The van shook as someone climbed into the driver’s seat. The water in the fish bowl sloshed about a bit as whoever it was made themselves comfortable. Gareth stopped swimming in mindless circles and faced the glass to receive his latest caller.

After a moment, a scaly green face loomed towards him and a pair of hugely magnified eyes filled the horizon, like twin moons.

Gareth waited, fluttering his fins.

‘Ahem.’ The caller cleared his throat. ‘Um – Gareth? It’s – er – me. Arthur.’

Gareth waited.

‘All well in fish world, is it?’

Gareth blew an affirmative bubble.

Plop.

‘Would that be –’ Arthur hesitated – ‘a yes?’

Gareth blew another. There was a little pause.

‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Good to know you’re all right.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I only wish I was.’

There was another little pause. Gareth waited.

‘I’m probably being petty,’ went on Arthur after a bit. ‘It’s just that – look, I know you’re TT’s pet and you have to be loyal, but – well, to be absolutely frank, I’m getting heartily sick of him taking
over
. I wasn’t that bad a manager, after all. I got us gigs, didn’t I? I kept the books balanced. I didn’t go round with a stupid hat on, flashing Magic Cards and buying cameras and watches and booking us into five-star boiler rooms.’