TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (17 page)

In the Tents

The Battle of the Bands was due to start at noon, but already there was a long queue stretching back from the main gates along the fences that enclosed the field. Hardened music fans know that you have to arrive early if you want to be near the action.

The band van crawled past the gates, where the turnstile was busily clicking and five-pound notes were briskly changing hands. There was huge placard attached to the gates. It read:

BATTLE OF THE BANDS!

ENTRY £5

STRICTLY NO FIGHTING!

TT was so excited that he almost didn’t see the tattooed Zombie who stepped into the road, frantically waving an arm. It had separated at the shoulder so he held it with his other hand and was using it to point with.

Behind the stage, a cordoned-off parking area had been set aside. Three vans had already arrived. One was pink, and had
The Gnomettes
emblazoned across the side in flowery writing. One was an evil green and announced
Betty and the Bully Girls
in big, threatening letters. The third was grey and had nothing written on it. It probably belonged to
One Big Troll and Some Other Biggish Ones
as, sadly, Trolls can’t spell and are therefore doomed for eternity to ride around in unmarked vans.

‘Here we all are, then,’ said TT, edging the van through the gate and accidentally running over the Zombie’s foot. ‘Looks like most of the competition’s beaten us to it.’ He pulled on the brake and switched off the engine. ‘Right, everybody out.’

In the back, Tallula began the complicated process of unfolding herself from her dark little cave. This was it, then. No going back now. The doors opened and light streamed in, making her blink. She stretched out her endless hairy legs and climbed out into the sunshine, where Arthur and O’Brian were having an argument. Arthur wanted O’Brian to leave the Pot in the van and O’Brian was insisting on taking it with him.

‘It’ll just draw attention,’ snapped Arthur.

‘I’m keeping it with me.’

‘It’ll be safer in the van.’

‘I’m keeping it with me.’

‘Ah, let him,’ said Filth. ‘Whatever. If it makes him happy, dude. Me, I’m for a sandwich.’

The band tent was packed, but the atmosphere was strained. There was clearly no intermingling going on. The rival bands stood around muttering in little cliques, casting unfriendly looks over their shoulders at the opposition.

Ignoring the nudges and unfriendly stares, the Boys, Chip and TT made a beeline for the food table. Or, rather, the no-food table. All the plates were empty of everything but a single forlorn, squashed fairy cake sitting in a sea of crumbs. Musicians always have enormous appetites, but apparently nobody had informed the caterers.

‘Man,’ sighed Filth. ‘No food, dudes. Wouldn’t you just know it?’ He wandered over to the large tea urn at the end of the table and pressed the button without much hope. As expected, it had run out.

‘No chairs either,’ said Arthur glumly. ‘I can’t say I’m impressed. No food, nowhere to sit, not even a napkin. Where’s the hospitality in that?’

O’Brian said nothing. He didn’t like the looks he was getting. It was either the stupid T-shirt or, more likely, the Pot. Fiercely, he clutched it even more tightly to his chest.

Three female Gnomes in pink frilly dresses with matching shoes and handbags were standing in a sniffy little group. All three wore dangling earrings in the shape of little fishes and had pink, beribboned fishing rods sticking out of their handbags. (Gnomes are into fishing in a big way – even the girls.) They were whispering and casting haughty looks over their shoulders at four tough-looking female Zombies with frightening hairstyles and heavy boots who were glaring back in a confrontational sort of way.

A collection of Trolls – one big, the others biggish – were busily scoffing handfuls of gravel from a big bowl. Gravel was clearly unpopular with the other bands. It was the only thing left on the table, apart from the fairy cake that nobody fancied.

Chip waddled over to join them. They all muttered ‘Uh!’ in greeting and gravely handed him the bowl, as is the Trollish way.

‘
He’s
all right, then,’ said Arthur irritably.

All this time, Tallula had been hovering by the entrance, trying to pluck up courage to go in. She wasn’t used to crowds. But she couldn’t hang about for ever. Besides, an enormous bone-white bus with darkened windows was nosing into the car park. The writing on the side said
Rodney and the Rattles
and was accompanied by the picture of a sneering skull wearing sunglasses. She didn’t want to be caught out in the open on her own.

She took a deep breath, smoothed down her horrible frock that was even more creased than usual, ducked under the doorway and went in.

The Gnomettes
spotted her instantly. They nudged each other and smirked behind their hands.

‘Oh my! Look at
her
!’

‘Talk about
hairy
!’

‘Just look at that dreadful
frock
!’

Stricken with embarrassment, Tallula looked around for somewhere to hide. There was a large potted plant standing in a corner and she made for that.

A murmur went up as a tall Skeleton wearing a dazzling white suit with massive shoulder pads came swaggering into the tent. He wore huge sunglasses and carried a banjo in his bony hand. He was closely followed by four slightly shorter Skeletons, also decked out in sunglasses and smart white suits and carrying banjos.

‘Rodney,’ hissed Arthur to TT.

General waves of dislike wafted in Rodney’s direction as he stood sneering in a superior sort of way.
The Rattles
hovered at his hugely padded shoulders, attempting to sneer as effectively as their leader but not quite making it. Rodney was the undisputed master of superior sneering.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ demanded Rodney. ‘Where’s Benny Bonkers?’

Shrugs all round. Even if they knew, they weren’t about to tell him.

In the celebrities’ tent, things weren’t going too well either. The problem wasn’t with the catering. In fact, the caterers had gone overboard. The table was heaped with all kinds of sumptuous food – strawberries, ice cream, chocolate cake, grapes, sandwiches, sugary biscuits, Turkish delight. The tea urn was up and running. There was a variety of cold drinks, including sherbet champagne.

The problem wasn’t with the seating. There was a comfortable sofa with plumped-up cushions. There were footstools. There was a plush red carpet underfoot.

No. The problem was with the lack of Mystery Celebrities.

‘Where are they?’ demanded the Mayor, who had arrived punctually despite being up all night polishing his chain. ‘I thought you said they would be here.’

‘Patience, Mr Mayor,’ soothed Ali. ‘Great artists cannot be hurried. Besides, it is fashionable to be late.’

‘But I thought you said they were anxious to meet me? As Mayor, I don’t like to be kept waiting.’

‘They will come. Trust me. Have a banana.’

‘I don’t
want
a banana. As Mayor, I –’

‘PALI!’ The sudden, furious cry rang out. ‘I’VE GOT A BONE TO PICK WITH YOU!’

‘Ah,’ said Ali. ‘Scott. You have arrived. Allow me to introduce the Mayor of Slu—’

‘Never mind about that!’ roared Scott, advancing into the tent, ignoring the Mayor’s hopefully extended hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Of all the people in the world, you expect me to sit on the same panel as that – that mincing
amateur
?’

‘Now then,’ began Ali mildly. ‘Calm yourself. Just simmer down and –’

‘
Amateur?
’ came an outraged shriek. ‘Did you just call me an
amateur
, Scott Sinister?’

‘Ah,’ beamed Ali. ‘Lulu, darling. How lovely you look this morning. Allow me to introduce the M—’

‘How
could
you?’ screeched Lulu. She brushed past the Mayor, skewering his foot with a spiked shoe. ‘How
could
you, Ali! I would
never
have agreed!
Never!
Not if I’d known
he
was on the panel. Stuck-up swankpot.’

The Mayor was hopping around in agony but nobody cared. He threw himself on to the sofa and moaned quietly, rubbing his foot.

‘You see?’ roared Scott. ‘You
see
what I have to put up with? Do you know what this crazed creature did? She attacked me at breakfast! With crumpets!’

‘Crumpets,’ mused Ali. ‘A tasty snack, but personally, for breakfast I prefer croissants. Although those little miniature muffins are –’

‘There was
jam
on them! There was
jam
in my
hair
!
The woman is
mad
, I tell you! There is no way, absolutely no way I’m sitting on the same panel as a madwoman.’

‘
Poodle boy!
’ snarled Lulu. ‘I’ve seen your film! All you do is get mauled by little puppies!’

‘And I’ve seen your show!
Singalongalulu!
Ha!
Yawnalongarubbish
, more like.’

‘You hear that? You hear what he just said? Tell him, Ali!’

‘Tell
her
!’ bawled Scott. ‘And will somebody stop that little man
moaning
. It’s getting on my nerves!’

‘Er – excuse me?’ said a voice. A bespectacled face was peering into the tent. It belonged to a solemn-looking Imp with a notebook in his hand. ‘Denzil Pencil, reporter with
Famous and Fabulous
. Just wondering if now’s a good time for an interview? I’ve got the photographer here.’

‘Perfect timing,’ purred Ali. ‘Come in, Mr Pencil, come in. Scott? Lulu? Ready for the press?’

‘By all means,’ said Scott graciously. ‘That is, if
you
are, Lulu, sweetheart?’

‘Why, of course,’ said Lulu. She gave a merry little laugh and tossed her hair. ‘Come along, Mr Mayor. Come and stand with me and Scotty. We’re all going to have our picture taken! Won’t that be fun? Ali, darling, come and stand here – you should be in it too.’

Celebrities, eh?

Back in the bands’ tent, Filth pushed his way through the rabble of musicians. In his hand was a paper plate containing the squashed fairy cake. He squeezed behind the potted palm and held it out to Tallula.

‘Want it? It’s the only thing left. Nobody, like, fancies it.’

‘Neither do I, actually,’ said Tallula. ‘But – thanks.’

‘I guess we could always chuck it at Rodney,’ said Filth in an attempt to make her smile. She didn’t, though. She just brushed the hair out of her eyes and gave a heavy sigh.

‘So what’s, like, with the, like, hiding thing?’ enquired Filth after a bit.

‘They’re staring at me,’ said Tallula.