TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (7 page)

‘It’s all right, you can let him in,’ called TT. ‘He’s with me.’

Chip shuffled to one side and waved a yellow-gloved hand.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Arthur politely to Chip.

‘Uh,’ said Chip politely to Arthur.

Arthur entered, stared around, grimaced, pulled out a chair, sat down, inspected the tabletop, produced a paper hanky, spread it out fussily and opened his folder.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the band accounts here, and a list of forthcoming gigs. I thought we could run through the diary before –’

‘Ah, we needn’t bother ourselves about that,’ said TT breezily. ‘All that’s in the past. From now on, it’s a new style of management. We’ve got to get you ready for the big time. The Battle on Saturday. That’s what we need to concentrate on. Forget the local gigs – they’re all small stuff.’

‘Well, yes, but the Zombie Reunion’s coming up –’

‘I cancelled it.’

‘You
cancelled
it?’

‘Yep. Ah. Here comes the drummer.’

Filth came strolling through the trees, head in the clouds and fingers snapping as usual. He arrived at the door and came face to face with Chip, who now had two enormous sacks of potatoes balanced on his broad shoulders.

‘He’s in the band,’ called TT. ‘Let him pass, please, Chip.’

‘Uh,’ said Chip to Filth, waving him in.

‘Hey!’ said Filth. ‘No, dude, after
you
. I’ll get the door.’

Chip waddled in, carrying the sacks as easily as if they were full of feathers. Arthur, TT and Filth watched in awe as he disappeared round the back.

‘Strong,’ said Arthur.

‘Way strong,’ agreed Filth.

‘Mmm,’ said TT thoughtfully.

‘O’Brian not here yet?’ enquired Filth, throwing himself into a chair.

There was a wobble of air around the fourth chair.

‘Yep,’ said a voice. ‘I am.’

And there was O’Brian, looking hot and bothered. One of his fingers was bandaged and he had a swollen eye.

‘What’s up with the digit, dude?’ asked Filth.

‘Shut it in the door.’

‘And the eye?’ asked Arthur.

‘Slipped on a chisel,’ mumbled O’Brian. ‘Banged it on the workbench.’

This was true. But what he
didn’t
say was that the chisel had mysteriously lifted itself off a hook and dropped on the floor right under his foot. And the door had slammed itself shut on purpose – or so it had seemed. Other things had gone wrong as well: a lost door key, curdled milk, ants in the larder, a boiled-dry kettle. A whole series of annoying little accidents and misfortunes, starting with the buttons, which he still couldn’t undo.

‘Ready to order?’ growled Conf from behind the counter.

‘Yes,’ said TT. ‘We’re all here now. What’ll you have, boys? Anything you like – it’s on me.’

‘Tea, I think,’ said Arthur. ‘With chips on the side. Do you have chilli sauce, by any chance?’ Conf gave him a Look. ‘Oh, all right, just chips then.’

‘Chips for me, man,’ said Filth. ‘And tea to wash it down.’

‘What about-a the Peexie?’ asked Conf. O’Brian went into a sulk.

‘He’s not a Pixie, he’s a Leprechaun,’ explained Arthur. ‘Similar hat.’

‘All-a the same to me. What he having?’

‘Come on, O’Brian,’ sighed Filth. He pushed over the menu. ‘Choose, man.’

O’Brian rarely ate out and when he did he didn’t like to be rushed, particularly by a Yeti who confused him with a Pixie.

‘Now then,’ he pondered. ‘What shall it be? I could have tea. On the other hand, I could have chips. Decisions, decisions. Of course, I could go mad and have tea
and
chips –’

‘Four teas and chips,’ TT told Conf. ‘Right. Let’s get started. I’ve been making enquiries. Here’s the deal. Today’s Wednesday. We leave early on Friday in the band van. That gives us today and tomorrow to prepare.’

‘What band van?’ interrupted Arthur. ‘We don’t have a van.’

‘You can leave that to me,’ said TT breezily. ‘Trust me. I’m the manager. There’ll be a van. If we don’t stop, we can make it to Sludgehaven by sundown.’

‘That’s pushing it, isn’t it?’ said Arthur. He had never actually been to Sludgehaven, but he’d seen it on the map and it certainly wasn’t just round the corner.

‘Not the way I drive,’ said TT. ‘Once there, we make for the Ritz.’ He sat back and waited for this to sink in.

‘We’re staying in the
Ritz
?’ gasped O’Brian. The famous Ritz hotel! Imagine his brothers’ faces! Whatever would they make of that?

‘Yep,’ said TT. ‘Only the best for you boys.’ He reached down, clicked open his briefcase and produced a glossy brochure. With a flourish, he threw it on the sticky table. ‘There. Read all about it.’

The Boys stared at the brochure, which had a picture of the Ritz on the front. It certainly looked impressive.

‘Five star,’ said TT. ‘Height of luxury. Feather beds. Gourmet food prepared by a top-class chef. A trouser press in every room. Every whim catered for. High-speed seagull service available on request.’

‘What’s that?’ asked O’Brian.

‘Like carrier pigeons, but with seagulls. So you’ll be able to spend breakfast looking over your sacks of fan mail.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Arthur. He picked up the brochure and flicked through it, frowning. ‘I don’t think we have any actual fans.’

‘Trust me. You will now you’ve hit the big time.’

‘It’s very expensive,’ said Arthur. ‘See this? Two hundred pounds a night. That’s more than we get if we win.’

‘
When
you win,’ corrected TT. ‘Anyway, that’s just the start. We’re getting a record contract, remember? We’ll be millionaires in no time. Might as well start as we mean to continue. So we arrive at the Ritz, settle in, order up room service, start enjoying the Crash ’n’ Bang lifestyle. Maybe throw a spellovision set out of the window.’

‘We’re going to throw a
spellovision set
out of the
window
?’ gasped O’Brian.

‘If we want to,’ said TT. ‘It’s the sort of wild and crazy thing we do. We can wreck the place if we like.’

‘Well, I don’t think we should,’ snapped Arthur.

‘I’m just saying we
could
. Don’t look like that – I’ll pay for it.’

‘How?’ Arthur wanted to know. ‘We’re not millionaires yet. There’s very little in the band kitty, you know.’

‘Hey.’ TT held up an admonishing finger. ‘Leave all that to me, OK? I’m the manager now.’

‘Then what?’ begged O’Brian. ‘Stop interrupting, Arthur. What next, TT?’

‘An early night,’ said TT firmly. ‘We need to be up bright and early next morning for the Battle. After breakfast, we drive to the field and find out from DJ Benny Bonkers what time you’re on. He’s the host for the day. Did I mention that?’

Everyone was impressed. DJ Benny Bonkers had his own show on the radio. It was called
Bonkers’ Half Hour
.

‘Then we find the hospitality tent,’ went on TT. ‘Grab a sandwich, meet the other bands. Talking of which . . .’ He dived into his briefcase again and produced a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve got a list. There’s five.’

‘Do we know any of them?’

‘You tell me. There’s a Skeleton outfit.
Rodney and the Rattles
.’

‘Never heard of ’em,’ said O’Brian.

‘
One Big Troll and Some Other Biggish Ones
?
’

‘Nope.’

‘
Betty and the Bully Girls
?
The Gnomettes
?
’

Shrugs all round.

‘Who’s the fifth?’ asked Filth.

‘You.
The Witchway Rhythm Boys
.’

‘Well, we’ve certainly got the best name,’ said Arthur. Suddenly he felt excited. He very nearly Sparked Up, but managed to swallow it down. ‘I reckon we’ll wipe the floor with them.’

‘You will,’ agreed TT. ‘You
will
. But there’s just one little thing that’s worrying me.’

‘What’s that?’ enquired O’Brian.

‘You need a singer,’ said TT.

There was a little silence.

‘I really don’t think we
do
, you know,’ said Arthur stiffly.

‘Trust me,’ said TT. ‘Look, you boys can
play
, I know that. But none of you sing, right? If you had a singer who could put words to your wild and crazy tunes, it’d add a whole new dimension to the act. People like bands with singers. You need a front man. Someone to get the crowd going. Someone with fashionable trousers and a good hairdo. It’s all to do with the image.’

‘Thought it was all to do with the music,’ muttered Filth.

‘Trust me,’ said TT again. ‘The image is all-important. I’m the manager.’

‘So you keep saying,’ snapped Arthur.

‘Well, I am. And let’s face it, Arthur, you never got very far doing it your way, did you?’

‘I did my best!’ Arthur was getting cross now. ‘Who are you to – to come marching in taking over! Cancelling our regular gigs and telling us what to do!’

‘Well,’ said TT, ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the way I operate. This is a
Battle
. We need all the weapons we can get. You want to win, don’t you?’

‘
Of course I want to win!
’

‘Then get a singer. I’m telling you now, you won’t stand a chance without one.’

At that moment, lunch arrived. Spag dumped the tray down on the table, slopping tea and spilling chips everywhere. Arthur hastily snatched up his folder and everyone mopped at their laps. O’Brian couldn’t help noticing that he got the worst of it. His trousers were
soaked
.

‘So,’ went on TT, glaring at Spag’s retreating back. ‘We hold auditions tonight. I’ll get posters put up in the Wood this afternoon. I’ve got some here.’ He reached down to his briefcase, peeled it from the sticky floor, clicked it open and took out a pile of posters. ‘What d’you think?’

He held one up. It said:

CRASH ’N’ BANG SINGER WONTID FOR UP-AND-CUMING BAND.

AWDISHUNS TONIT, SEVEN OCLOK, THE STOODY-O.

‘I don’t believe this,’ fumed Arthur. He appealed to O’Brian, who was bent over extracting soggy chips from his turn-ups. ‘We don’t want a singer, do we?’

‘As your manager, I say you do,’ said TT firmly. ‘What do you think, Filth?’

‘I dunno,’ said Filth doubtfully. ‘It’s kinda late, dude.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said TT. ‘Audition tonight, find a singer, practise with him tomorrow and off on Friday. Plenty of time. Right. On to the fan club. I’ve taken out an advertisement in tomorrow’s
Miracle
. I’m expecting a big response. And I’m getting quotes in from doll companies. We’ll need to take photographs so they can see what you look like.’