TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (19 page)

The crowd roared good-natured approval as
The Gnomettes
tripped on, trying not to collide with
One Big Troll and Some Other Biggish Ones
who were clumping offstage with their rocks, looking quite cheerful despite mixed reviews.

‘Well, they’re certainly pretty,’ remarked Scott loudly, for Lulu’s benefit. ‘
Very
pretty. Unlike some I could mention.’

Lulu reached over and tipped the jug of water into his lap.

The Gnomettes
gathered round the microphone, simpered, fluffed out their dresses and burst into song.

‘
Down at the pond there are tiddlers,

Minnows and sticklebacks tooooooo,

But we go fishing for compliments,

That’s what we like to dooooooooo . . .
’

O’Brian sat in the van, hugging his Pot and staring at Gareth. Gareth stared back. He knew O’Brian didn’t want to talk right now. Everything that had to be said had been said. Fate would take its course.

The door opened and Filth climbed in, followed by Tallula and Arthur.

‘Hey,’ said Filth. ‘What’s up, man?’

‘Nothing,’ said O’Brian.

‘Don’t you want to come and listen to the competition?’ asked Arthur. ‘It’s rubbish so far.’

‘No,’ said O’Brian. ‘Leave me alone.’

A little silence fell. Filth tapped out a rhythm on the dashboard.

‘Well, you can’t stay here for ever,’ said Arthur after a bit. ‘You’ve got a solo to play, remember? That nice little riff you worked out after Tallula’s first verse. Right?’

‘I’m not playing. You’ll have to go on without me. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Not in the
mood
,’ repeated Arthur. ‘I see. I don’t suppose – this is just a wild guess, mind – but I don’t suppose this has anything to do with you being
cursed by a Fairy
?’

O’Brian looked up sharply. His shocked eyes travelled from one face to another, finally resting on Tallula.

‘I told them,’ said Tallula. ‘I heard you talking to Gareth. I was in the back trying to sleep. Sorry. I thought it’d help to get things out in the open.’

‘Why didn’t you say, man?’ asked Filth. ‘That’s some heavy guilt trip you’ve been on.’

‘Right,’ agreed Arthur. ‘We’re your friends, after all.’

‘You won’t be, though,’ said O’Brian bitterly. ‘Not when we lose.’

‘Lose?’ Filth was amazed. ‘Why would we lose? We’re
good
.’

‘I know that. But don’t you see? I’ll be dragging my bad luck onstage with me and it’ll rub off on
you
. If I play, we don’t stand a chance.’

‘We’ll take that risk,’ said Arthur. ‘We’re
The Witchway Rhythm Boys
. Sorry, Tallula, I mean
The Witchway Rhythm Boys and a Werewolf Girl
. We play together or we don’t play at all.’

‘Yeah,’ said Filth. ‘We need that solo, dude. And it’s not about winning or losing. It’s about playing.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You get all the fan mail and look good in your T-shirt. I’m just a figure of fun. Look, I’m
sorry
, all right? I’m sorry I’ve mucked things up. But I’m not going on and that’s that.’

‘Right,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s it. You won’t listen to us, so I’m calling in reinforcements. Come on, you two. Let’s go and get TT.’

The Battle Continues

‘F
ishing, fishing, we like to go fishing,

Fishing for complimeeeeeeeents!
’

The final note died away and the Gnome contingent in the audience burst into loud applause.
The Gnomettes
curtsied and looked pleased with themselves as Benny Bonkers ran to the microphone.

‘And that’s it from the lovely
Gnomettes
. Comments from the judges? Ali?’

‘Interesting,’ said Ali. ‘Fish-based, but – interesting.’

‘Thank you, Ali. Mr Mayor?’

‘Well, as Mayor –’

‘Keep it short, please. Time’s pressing.’

‘Yes, well, as Mayor –’

‘Lulu? What about you?’

‘Appalling,’ sniffed Lulu. ‘Tuneless and time-wasting and they don’t suit pink.’

The Gnomettes
stopped smiling and looked highly put out.

‘Oh dear,’ said Benny sadly. ‘Not too encouraging there I’m afraid, ladies. Scott?’

‘Charming,’ said Scott. ‘Lovely ladies, lovely song. A breath of fresh air compared to the claptrap that passes for music in certain shows these days. In fact, I’d like to hear it again.’

‘No time for encores, Scott,’ said Benny. ‘Right, girls, off you go. Next up is an act I know all you Zombie fans have been waiting for. It’s
Betty and the Bully Girls
singing a catchy little number entitled “Get You In The Playground”.’

‘I wish they’d get
you
in the playground,’ hissed Lulu, pointing her sharpened pencil at Scott, who snatched it, broke it in two and dropped both halves in her water glass. The spellovision camera moved in for a close-up, and they hastily put on smiles.

Meanwhile, backstage, Arthur, Filth and Tallula were in deep consultation with TT and Chip. The other bands were staring curiously, aware that there was some sort of crisis.
One Big Troll and Some Other Biggish Ones
were wiping their rocks and putting them into a big sack. They had done their bit, of course, and so had
The Gnomettes
, who were clustered round the tea urn.
Rodney and the Rattles
stood in a corner with their backs to everyone, tuning up their banjos and sneering.

‘Really?’ said TT. ‘Cursed by a Fairy? Well, that’s explains a lot. You’d think he’d have mentioned it.’

‘Too embarrassed,’ said Arthur. ‘He’s pretty upset. Says he’s lost his Leprechaun Luck and won’t play.’

‘Of course he’s playing,’ said TT. ‘All right, you don’t mess with Fairies, everyone knows that. But he’s got to go on. He’s in the band.’

‘We know,’ said Arthur. ‘We’ve told him that. But he thinks he’ll make us lose.’

‘I’ll go out and have a word – he’ll listen to me. It’s called crisis management. Somebody get him some tea. The urn’s working now. Chip, you come with me.’

‘
We’ll get you in the playground, playground, playground,

We’ll get you in the playground and try to make you cry!
’

Betty and the Bully Girls
were giving it their all. It was a horrible tune with horrible words and they performed it horribly, with actions. The Zombies in the audience were loving it but everyone else looked a bit scared, as well they might.

‘
We’ll throw away your lunchbox, lunchbox, lunchbox,

We’ll throw away your lunchbox and poke you in the eye!

Shoobee doo, shoobee dum, pull your hair, kick your bum,

We’ll get you in the playground and try to make you cry!
’

To most people’s relief, the song ended there. Betty strode around the stage flexing her biceps and one of the
Bully Girls
kicked over the microphone stand.

‘Well, there we have it,’ cried Benny, zooming on. ‘A tough message from Betty and the girls. Comments, judges, please. Mr Mayor?’

‘Well, as Mayor, I –’

‘Moving swiftly on. Ali?’

‘Interesting. A little
fierce
perhaps, but – interesting.’

‘What about you, Scott?’

‘Hated it,’ said Scott with a shudder. ‘Complete rubbish from start to finish.’

‘Come up here and say that,’ offered Betty, hands on hips.

‘He wouldn’t dare,’ said Lulu. ‘He’s even scared of little poodle puppies. Personally, I absolutely
adored
it.’

‘Here he is!’ announced TT, marching cheerfully into the tent. He was followed by Chip, who had O’Brian slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. ‘Just a few last-minute nerves. I’ve given him a little pep talk. He’s feeling much better now. Put him down, Chip – he’s fine.’

‘No, I’m not,’ muttered O’Brian, slithering to the floor. He accepted the paper cup of weak tea that Tallula thrust into his hand, though. He needed it after the pep talk, which consisted of being forcibly ejected from the van and carted across the car park by Chip while TT shouted things about loyalty and teamwork in his ear.

‘Shall I hold your Pot for you?’ offered Tallula gently.

‘No thanks. I can manage.’

‘That’s right, you get that tea down you,’ instructed TT. ‘The rest of us’ll start unloading the van.’

O’Brian found himself alone. Balancing the tea on the Pot, he made his way to a quiet spot and hunkered down with his back to the canvas. He kept his eyes lowered but was aware of whispers and muffled titters from the other bands.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up and found himself staring into a pair of dark glasses.

‘What’s in the pot, little man?’ sneered Rodney. ‘
Do
tell. We’re all curious.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ snapped O’Brian.

‘Well –
obviously
. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘None of your business,’ said O’Brian shortly.

‘What do you call that hanging round your neck?’ sneered Rodney. ‘Some sort of
instrument
? Or a piece of bathroom plumbing?’