TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (4 page)

Gareth blew a stream of stern bubbles. They clearly contained a warning.

‘Yes, I know,’ sighed TT. ‘I
know
we’ve got no money.’

He flung the paper to one side and stared around the hole, which urgently needed attention. The walls were crumbling away and there was a nasty crack in the ceiling. Piles of earth were dotted around and growing daily. Subsidence. Hmm. More money.

So now what? He should shovel the earth up really, but he wasn’t in the mood. He could open the noodles, but what would he eat tomorrow? Watching spello was out until he could afford to get it fixed. What to do? What to do?

Perhaps a walk was in order. A bit of fresh air, that was the ticket. It would save on candles. Maybe he would find a set of scalpels on a grass verge, dropped by some passing Brain Surgeon. Anyway, sitting around brooding got you nowhere.

More cheerful now that he had a plan of action, TT rose, hurried to his T-shirt drawers and pored over the options.

TT took his Moonmad T-shirts seriously. There were three drawers full of them in various colours (except pink). All neatly folded and graded in a proper system. Top drawer: newest ones, all crisp and ready for the good times. Next drawer down: the well loved ones he wore indoors when he wasn’t expecting visitors. In the bottom drawer were the old clapped-out ones he used for the bad times and decorating.

After a moment or two, TT made his decision. Yellow. A nice, bright, optimistic, sunny yellow one, for the start of Great New Things.

Freshly attired, he crossed over to the sideboard and tapped gently on the glass.

‘I’m off out, Gareth. See you in a bit.’

Gareth blew a supportive bubble.

On the way out, TT grabbed the
Miracle
and stuffed it under his arm. If no scalpels were lying around, he would find a quiet glade and do the crossword puzzle. You had to keep the brain active. Maybe he would come up with an idea. Some sort of exciting new business venture. Something that he could really get his teeth into. That would be good.

Somewhere deep in Witchway Wood, where no birds sing, a tall dark shape slinks along, keeping in the shadows of the trees . . .

Rehearsal

‘So,’ said Arthur briskly. ‘We’ve got the Marching Around tune, the Basic Barn Dance tune, the Wedding tune, the Happy Birthday tune, the All-Purpose Overture and the Clear-Off-The-Show’s-Over tune. Is that it?’

The Boys were gathered in the Studio. This was a small shed lined with egg boxes to keep the noise in. Sadly, a team of cowboy Goblins had done the job and stuck the boxes on the outside, which wasn’t quite as effective, particularly after the first heavy rainfall. Also, when the Boys were playing it usually got unbearably hot and stuffy, so they left the door ajar. Soundproof it wasn’t.

Filth sat slumped on his drum stool, picking at his nail varnish. O’Brian had just arrived in a wobble of air and was currently collapsed against the wall, fanning himself and getting his breath back. Arthur leaned on the piano lid, writing a list with a pencil, looking efficient.

‘There’s the Jaunty Jig,’ said O’Brian, finding his breath.

‘Jaunty Jig,’ said Arthur, noting it down.

‘
Jig
,’ muttered Filth. ‘Huh.’

‘Always goes down well,’ said O’Brian. He just stopped himself adding ‘Especially my solo’, although he thought it.

Arthur ran his pencil down the list. ‘Seven basic numbers. That’s what we’ve got. We need more. I think we should add a Waltz. The Skeletons kept requesting it at their last dance. I thought they were going to storm the stage.’

‘Oh, man,’ muttered Filth. ‘A
Waltz
? Man.’

‘Problems, Filth?’ asked Arthur tiredly. He knew what was coming.

‘Are you serious? A
Waltz
. I mean. It’s not cool, dude.’

‘I know,’ said Arthur. ‘I
know
. But sadly, we have to play what people want. We’ve got to earn a living. Well, some of us do. We don’t all have a secret pot of Leprechaun gold buried in our garden.’

‘We don’t
open
it,’ explained O’Brian wearily. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s not for spending. It’s just
there
.’ This was true. For Leprechauns, the whole point of having a pot of gold is, well, having a pot of gold.

‘But we’re not in it for the bread,’ went on Filth. ‘We’ve got day jobs for that. The music’s for love, dude.’

‘Even so, we have to play what people like,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s a tough world out there.’

‘But I don’t
like
what people like. I wanna play Crash ’n’ Bang.’

‘We all do! But life is full of compromise, Filth. And it’s not as though we don’t ever play the good stuff, is it? What about that number we came up with the other week? With the boogie bass in the left hand? When we jammed for hours non-stop? Remember?’

‘Yeah, but we only play like that in rehearsals,’ complained Filth. ‘Never in public.’

‘That’s because the public doesn’t
like
it.’

‘Yeah, but
I
do. Anyway, I’m fed up with talking. I want to play.’ Filth picked up his drumsticks.

‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Because we’ve got a Zombie Reunion Dinner Dance coming up Saturday week and they’re asking for a Lurching tune. So we should get cracking if we’re going to do a Waltz as well.’

Filth put down the sticks, folded his arms and looked mutinous. These little disagreements came up from time to time. It happens with creative types.

‘Right,’ said Arthur, ignoring him. ‘Think lurchy.’ He put down his pencil, sat at the piano and flexed his claws. ‘I thought something like this.’

And he began to play something lurchy. It had a thumpy, lumpy sort of left hand, with long pauses between thumps. His right claw added a series of sinister sounding chords on the top. After a moment, O’Brian joined in with some jolly little toodles that sounded more like Skipping Pixies than Lurching Zombies.

Arthur stopped.

‘Perhaps a little less jaunty, O’Brian. Less village green and more foggy graveyard.’

‘You want me to play like fog?’

‘Yes.’

O’Brian attempted to play like fog. It still sounded a bit toodly. Arthur added a few lurchy thumps on the piano. After a moment or two, they lurched and fogged to a ragged halt.

‘It’s not working,’ said Filth, still sulking. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘No?’ said Arthur politely. ‘Oh dear. Would you sooner start with the Waltz, then?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what, then?’

‘This,’ said Filth. And he closed his eyes and began tapping out a little rhythm on the rim of his side drum.

It was a simple little rhythm, but my, was it infectious! It instantaneously made your feet tap.
Tee-tata-tee-tata-tee-tata-tee!
Then the bass drum joined in.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Then the cymbal.
Tssssk! Tssssk! Tssk, tssk, tssssk!

After a moment, Arthur’s head began to nod in time. Then he gave a little chuckle, spat on his claws and hunched over the keys. His left claw crashed into action, moving up and down the keyboard, thumping out the bass. His right claw added choppy little chords that fitted in all the right places. His tail swished rhythmically from side to side.

O’Brian raised his whistle to his lips and anchored himself to the spot, determined not to break into unwanted skipping. For some days, a delicious little melody had been capering at the back of his mind and now was the time to try it out.

His nimble fingers moved up and down as he blew. Out came the tricky little tune. It crept into the ear and danced around inside the head, fitting in perfectly.

Yes, together, they sounded
good
. This was the sort of stuff they liked to play. Feel-good, stomping, wave-your-arms-around sort of music. And above all,
loud
. Arthur’s piano was capable of making a terrific din and so were Filth’s drums – and around them both O’Brian wove his catchy little melody. Sparks exploded from Arthur’s nostrils. Filth’s hair gel began melting and trickling down his face. O’Brian was scarlet with the effort of controlling his twitching feet.

Tee-tata-tee-tata, boom, boom boom! Honka-tonka, honka-tonka, twiddly tweedly woo!

‘Bring it down!’ shouted Arthur, and suddenly they were all playing quietly, like thieves in the night.

‘Let it go!’ roared Arthur, after a minute or two of this. And they let it go, like a storm in the mountains!

TEE-TATA-CRASH! HONKETTY-TONKETTY-
TONK! WHEE-TIDDLY-WHEE!

Sweat dripped, sparks sparkled, drumsticks flashed in the air. It was so loud, a train could have roared past and they wouldn’t have heard.

Of course, it couldn’t go on for ever. This was high-energy stuff and at some point they would have to stop for a breather. Finally, at a signal from Arthur, it all ended on a gigantic, triumphant crash, causing the walls to tremble and a number of soggy egg boxes to dislodge and slither off the roof.

‘Yeah, baby!’ cried Filth, throwing his sticks in the air and catching them deftly in one hand. ‘That’s what I’m
talking
about!’

Arthur fished around in his piano stool for the towel he kept there to wipe his face and O’Brian snatched off his hat and fanned himself. All three were grinning broadly.

‘Now
that’s
what I call music,’ said an unexpected voice from the doorway.

It was the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt.