Free TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang by Kaye Umansky Page B

settled himself down with the Pot cradled on his lap while everyone else had their picture taken.
    ‘That’s it!’ cried TT. He handed the camera to Chip, who threw it in the back of the van, breaking one of the tripod legs. ‘Let’s hit the road!’
    ‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Sludgegooey, relieved. ‘Off you go, then, Filth. See you Sunday, with the cheque.’
    ‘Good luck, son,’ said Arthur’s mum and gave him a motherly hug.
    TT climbed into the driver’s seat. Carefully, he re-stuck Gareth’s bowl on the dashboard and started the engine. Filth squeezed in beside O’Brian. Arthur and Chip took the seats behind.
    ‘What’s with the fish, man?’ enquired Filth. ‘I gotta ask. Is it, like, a mascot?’
    ‘Oh, Gareth is much more than that,’ said TT. ‘My Aunty Maureen gave him to me. He’s family.’
    ‘Ridiculous idea,’ snorted Arthur. ‘Bringing a goldfish on tour.’
    ‘Just because he’s a fish it doesn’t mean he can’t have opinions,’ said TT. ‘I talk to him all the time. He’s a very good listener. Very wise, actually.’
    ‘You’re saying it’s – what, some sort of fish oracle ?’ sneered Arthur.
    ‘Believe me, fish are deep. There’s more to Gareth than you think.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ said Arthur.
    ‘Well, you don’t have to believe me,’ said TT, ‘but don’t call him it – he doesn’t like it. Right, everybody, seat belts on!’
    The engine revved – Arthur’s mother waved a handkerchief – Sludgegooey held up her GUD LUK sign. The Banshees produced colourful pompoms, brandished their banner and began chanting a little cheerleader ditty they’d composed. It went:
     
‘Off on tour so toodle-ooo!
Good luck, Filth, ’cos we love you!’
     
    Filth didn’t notice because he was fiddling with the knobs on the radio.
    And they were off!

 
     
 
     
Chapter Thirteen
    In the Van
     
    Tallula stood in the shadow of a tall tree, waiting to be picked up. The day was warming up and she wasn’t a great one for sunshine, which made her hair greasy. She had washed it the night before, using a whole family-sized bottle of shampoo. She wondered if anyone would notice the difference. Probably not.
    At her feet was a small suitcase. She had packed and repacked it three times, although there wasn’t much to put in. She had no clothes apart from her frock, which she had never liked but always wore because she hated shopping. She had put in her hairbrush, her toothbrush, her little black book, her pencil and a paper bag full of moon-shaped biscuits. She intended to hand them round during the journey.
    Tallula hardly ever left her cave in daylight, let alone set off on a trip which would involve singing in public in a big field in faraway Sludgehaven, which she had never visited. Werewolves aren’t great ones for the seaside. When they do go on holiday – a rare event – they spend most of the time trying to come up with the name of a friend to send a postcard to. Tallula wondered about sending a card to her friend Shirley, who she hadn’t seen since they had fallen out over a hairbrush when they were six. Then she remembered that she didn’t have an address.
    There came the sound of a blaring horn and the band van came screaming up the track in a cloud of dust. Tallula took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine and gave a wave.
    The van squealed to a halt. The window rolled down and TT’s head popped out.
    ‘Hop in!’ he shouted.
    ‘Right!’ called Tallula. ‘Er – where?’
    There was only one seat spare but she saw at once that there wasn’t room for her long limbs.
    ‘It’ll have to be in the back, with the instruments.’
    ‘Oh. Right.’
    Tallula walked round to the back and wrenched open the doors. The back was pretty much filled with equipment, but there was a dark space between the piano and drums into which she could just about squeeze, if she folded her knees and kept her head down.
     

     
     
    ‘Hurry up,’ shouted TT.