STEVEN BUTLER
The Wrong Pong Troll’s Treasure
Illustrated by Chris Fisher
PUFFIN
Contents
A Very Grizzly Grandma
A Weekend Down the Toilet
Back in the Underneath
Surprises
Bedtime Stories
Old Barnacle’s Boat Tours
Meanwhile
Across the Undersea
Meanwhile
Grunched
‘Swim, Nev!’
Meanwhile
The Clunk
Jaundice’s Cell
‘Hello, Grandma!’
Meanwhile
Break Out
The Rigor Mortis
Meanwhile
Roll Call
Jobs
Canker’s Kitchen
Nowhere to Sleep
Lies … All Lies
Waiting … Waiting … Waiting …
Meanwhile
No More Waiting
Bait
Ahoy There!
Reunited
The Betrayal
Fight!
The Last Stand of Lady Jaundice
Home
PUFFIN BOOKS
THE WRONG PONG TROLL’S TREASURE
Steven Butler is an actor, dancer and trained circus performer as well as a keen observer of trolls and their disgusting habits. He has starred in Peter Pan, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and as Henry in Horrid Henry Live and Horrid! His primary school headmaster was the fantastically funny author Jeremy Strong.
For Gavin Higgins and family … a very
West-Country inspiration for the trollish language
Books by Steven Butler
THE WRONG PONG
HOLIDAY HULLABALOO
TROLL’S TREASURE
A Very Grizzly Grandma
Jaundice’s eyes flashed like copper as she paced back and forth across her cell in the darkness, yelling furiously.
‘HOW DARE THEY THROW ME BACK IN JAIL! HOW DARE THEY LOCK UP LADY JAUNDICE – THE TROLL THAT STOLE – THE MOST ROTSOME SWASHBUNGLER EVER TO SAIL THE UNDERSEA?’
Grunting, Jaundice snatched up her tin cup and rattled it across the prison bars.
‘LET ME OUT!’ she bellowed. ‘WAKE UP, YOU GREAT FOOZLE FART!’
The prison guard, who had been fast asleep on an old crate, jolted awake. The weeds in his beard twitched with surprise.
‘Oy!’ he yelled at the furious old troll. ‘Keep your yellin’ down or I’ll –’ Before he could even finish what he was saying, the tin cup flew through the bars of Jaundice’s cell and wedged in his open mouth. He toppled backwards in a shower of drool and broken teeth.
‘LET ME OUT!’
A Weekend Down the Toilet
Neville Brisket raced into the bathroom and headed for the toilet.
‘MUUUUMMM!’ he yelled. Neville was so excited he thought he might burst. ‘DAAADDD! HURRY UP, IT’S TIME FOR ME TO GO!’
Without waiting for a reply from his miserable parents, Neville lifted the seat and peered into the toilet bowl. Finally the day had arrived. He was going to spend an entire weekend with his troll-family in the town of Underneath.
Neville glanced at the note he’d found floating in the toilet water a few weeks before. It was an old scrap of handkerchief with the words ‘NEV, IT’S BEEN ARMFULS OF AGES. COME AND STAY FOR A SKWINSY BIT …’ scrawled across it. Finally his mum and dad were going to let him visit.
‘Stop shouting, Neville!’ Marjorie snapped as she skulked into the bathroom. She had a face like someone sucking on a cactus. That, along with a mud face-pack and a head covered in pink hair-rollers, made her almost look like one of the Bulches herself. ‘I don’t know why on earth you want to go back down there with those … those … things!’
‘They’re called the Bulches,’ Neville said over his shoulder as he practised wedging one foot down the toilet. ‘And they’re family, remember?’
‘Don’t mention their name in my presence,’ Neville’s dad Herbert scoffed as he waddled into the bathroom behind Marjorie. ‘Horrible things, trolls … it’s not natural.’
‘And don’t call them family, either,’ said Marjorie through gritted teeth. ‘It turns my stomach every time I’m reminded we’ve got trolls in the family.’
Herbert hung his head in shame and twiddled his thumbs. He still wasn’t quite used to the idea that his mother had turned out to be a famous troll-criminal.
‘Never mind,’ said Neville with a smile. Anything to stop his mum wailing and gnashing like a slurch.
Marjorie eyed Neville suspiciously.
‘Can I go now?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ Marjorie thrust a backpack into Neville’s arms. ‘There’s a clean pair of pyjamas inside … and some wet wipes … and some bleach … and some tissues … and some Stink-be-gone spray … and … and –’ Marjorie suddenly burst out crying.
‘There, there, darling,’ Herbert said, patting his wife on the shoulder like someone comforting the feelings of an atomic bomb.
‘It’ll be fine, Mum, honest. I’ll be totally safe.’
‘It’s not that!’ Marjorie snapped between blubs. ‘I just can’t bear the thought of …’
‘Of what?’ asked Neville.
‘Of …’
‘Come on, honeyblossom,’ said Herbert.
‘Of … of … OF ALL THAT DIRT!’ Marjorie wailed.
That was it. Without even a backward glance at his sog-brained parents, Neville stepped into the toilet basin, one foot after the other, shouted ‘Bye!’ over his shoulder and pulled the flush.
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!
Back in the Underneath
In an instant, Neville and his backpack full of cleaning products were sucked down and round the U-bend. Water gushed and everything went suddenly dark as he sped downhill in the water pipe.
The first time Neville had taken this journey, he was terrified out of his wits. But now … now he was filled with excitement. He couldn’t help humming the theme tune of his favourite superhero show, Captain Brilliant, as he swooshed and splashed down and up and over and under.
The final twist came and went and Neville braced himself as he saw the open mouth of the pipe racing towards him between his feet.
‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHFFFFFFFF!’
Neville shot straight into the outstretched, grey-green arms of his dooda, Clod. The big troll stumbled backwards, then squeezed him in a big, troll-sized hug.
‘Ooooh! ’Ello, my squibbly little lump!’ Clod beamed down at Neville. ‘Right on time, you brainy-bonker.’
‘Dooda!’ Neville shouted and flung his little arms as far round Clod’s neck as they would go.
‘I’ve been so exciterous,’ Clod said. ‘It seems like a month of mungles since I clapped peepers on you last.’
‘I know,’ said Neville. ‘Mum and Dad were so mad when your invitation arrived in the toilet. Mum even locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out for a whole day.’
Clod chuckled. ‘That Margarine is a funksome one.’ And, without further ado, the great hulk of a troll swung Neville on to his shoulders and started galumphing off downhill. ‘We’d better get a move on. There’s so much to do while you’re trollidayin’ with us. I’ve got all sorts of jubbly things planned.’
Neville held on tightly to Clod’s shoulders as his dooda lumbered towards the town. There he was, after weeks of waiting, riding through the Underneath on his troll-father’s back and feeling braver than ever. To think what a ’fraidy-cat Neville had been back when Clod had first snatched him down the toilet by mistake.
In no time at all, the pair had reached the stone archway with the words WELCOME UNDER carved across the top.<
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‘’Ere we are, Nev.’ Clod reached up and ruffled Neville’s hair.
Neville peered into the gloom and smiled. It felt good to be back in the Underneath. His heart brightened as Clod led the way through the narrow alleyways, past the rat-squisher’s shop and Alopecia Grubber’s restaurant.
By the light of all the milk-bottle lanterns, Neville could see the town was just as busy as always, with trolls rushing about in all directions.
‘Home we go,’ Clod sang to himself. ‘I expect Mooma will be cookin’ up something delunktious.’
They headed into the market square and passed beneath the ticker-dinger-thinger, the Underneath’s gigantic clock tower – made out of junk and with numbers on its face up to seventy-three. Neville glanced up, his head filling with the memories of trapping his grandma Joan inside it like a rat in a cage. He still couldn’t believe his own grandma had turned out to be Lady Jaundice, The Troll That Stole.
Neville peered high into the rafters of the enormous clock, but to his relief, the old bat was no longer there. He was just about to ask Clod what they’d done with the gonker, when Neville caught sight of Washing Machine Hill.
‘Almost there, lump,’ Clod said.
Instantly, Neville forgot about his grizzly old grandma and his heart leapt into his throat. It had been so long since he’d climbed the hill made of broken, rusty washing machines to the jam-jar house at the top.
‘I’d forgotten how much I’ve missed this place,’ Neville said to the back of his dooda’s barrel-sized head.
‘Well, you’re here now, youngling,’ Clod chuckled and headed uphill. ‘Welcome back!’
Surprises
‘I could boogle my bunions!’ Clod said, half giggling, half singing to himself. Neville wasn’t sure, but he thought his dooda might even be skipping as they reached the jam-jar house.
Clod put Neville down among the washing-machine parts and hurried through the green curtain. ‘This way, Nev!’
Neville watched Clod’s grey-green shape through the jam-jar walls as he clomped across the kitchen to another grey-green shape. This one was larger than Clod and had a lot more hair.
Mooma, Neville said to himself and darted through the green curtain in his dooda’s wake.
Neville felt dizzy with excitement. Suddenly seeing the Bulches’ house again and smelling Malaria’s cooking almost knocked him over with happiness. He looked around the kitchen.
There was the table made from stacks of newspapers and a splintered door, the broken plates on the shelves and Rabies the giant troll-mole gnawing on a bone in the corner. Pong, Neville’s troll-brother, was licking a bowl on a barrel seat. He took one look at Neville and cooed loudly. Malaria Bulch was bending over the stove, wrestling what looked like a giant woodlouse into a saucepan.
‘GET BACK IN THERE AND COOK!’ she yelled at the ugly creature. Then she smacked it with the round end of a rusty ladle and slammed the lid shut. ‘AND DON’T COME OUT TILL YOU’RE CRISPY!’
‘Mooma!’ Neville shouted, flinging his arms wide.
Malaria spun round, clasping both spade-sized hands to her chest.
‘Oh, my grumpious little grumplet!’ she cried. ‘You made me jumpy. I wasn’t expectin’ you two back for yonkers.’
‘Ole Nev don’t waste no time,’ said Clod proudly. ‘He’s all prompty.’
Neville ran and hugged his mooma round one of her hefty thighs.
‘I’ve missed you, my brandyburp, but look at you,’ Malaria said, picking him up and planting a wet kiss on the top of his head.
‘You’re scrawnier than a punker’s poker. What is that Margarine feedin’ you?’
‘Last night she made us tofu burgers,’ Neville said, pulling a face.
‘What?’
If she wasn’t grey-green already, Neville could have sworn his mooma just turned greener.
‘That’s just plain old rotsome,’ Malaria said. ‘I’d say it’s time you had a Bulch Family din-dins and we’ll talk about what funly things we’ve got planned. Eh, Clod?’
‘Sounds goodly to me,’ said Clod, plonking himself at the table. ‘Carryin’ overlings is hungry work and that’s no mistakin’.’
‘Down you pop, lump,’ Malaria said, pulling a barrel up to the table for Neville to sit on. ‘Now you rest your bumly bits and I’ll rustle up somethin’ tinkly. I’ll just fetch Rubella.’
Neville felt his stomach tighten into a knot. He knew his troll-sister, Rubella, would be around for his stay in the Underneath, but why did she still make him feel so nervous? He took a deep breath and imagined himself in green pants like Captain Brilliant. That always made him feel much braver.
‘RUBELLA!’ yelled Malaria, as she pounded on the ceiling with a broom handle. ‘OY, BELLY!’
‘What?’ a voice shouted from the floor above. A shiver ran down Neville’s spine at the sound of it.
‘NEV’S HERE,’ Malaria yelled again.
‘So?’ Rubella grunted through the floor.
‘WE’RE ’AVIN’ SOME DIN-DINS!’
CCCCRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSHHHHHHH!
The whole house shook as Rubella burst through the ceiling in a shower of floorboards and bits of jam jar. The first time Neville had ever met the enormous rhinoceros that was his troll-sister, she had punched a hole in the ceiling to get a better look at him. But now she came through the kitchen roof entirely and landed perfectly on a barrel seat at the table in between Pong and Neville, like a hungry boulder.
‘Belly,’ Clod said, scraping a huge lump of ceiling off the table. ‘You could have used the stairs.’
‘Too tired,’ Rubella grunted. Then she turned her huge, ugly head and leered at Neville. ‘’Ello, whelp,’ she said.
Neville smiled a nervous smile and tried not to wet himself.
‘Erm … hello, Rubella …’ he mumbled, then busied himself with picking bits of plaster out of his jumper.
‘Dinner’s ’ere,’ Malaria said, clomping over from the stove with a tray filled with bubbling pots and pans. It was like she hadn’t even noticed the whoppsy great chunker that had just plummeted through the ceiling and landed exactly in her place at the table. ‘Eat up, Nev.’
Before he knew it, Neville was tucking into plates of very crispy woodlouse and hot, steaming mugs of left-sock stew. Even though he knew he should find it disgusting, like he had on his first visit to the Bulches, Neville loved every mouthful of Malaria’s squibbly cooking.
‘Well, Nev!’ Clod said, rubbing his spade-sized hands together. ‘We’ve got lots to do while you’re here.’
‘Absolunkly,’ Malaria joined in. ‘We can go for a stroll round the market, maybe.’
‘And I thought we might go and watch some theatricals,’ said Clod.
‘The market and the theatre?’ huffed Rubella, with a mouthful of rat patty. ‘BORIN’! Tell the little snot what we’re doing in the morrow.’
‘Rubella!’ Clod snapped. ‘That’s meant to be a surprise.’
‘What is?’ asked Neville.
‘It’s nuffin’,’ said Clod. ‘Well … erm …’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’ Neville said. Butterflies started fluttering around inside his belly. ‘Is it something horrible?’
‘Oh, go on, Clod,’ Malaria said. ‘Now you’re scaring the poor lump. He looks all nervish.’
‘Ha ha!’ Clod beamed. ‘All rightsy. Tomorrow, we’re takin’ you to visit the Clunk.’
‘The what?’ Neville said. He didn’t like the sound of it.
‘The Clunk!’ said Clod, scooping another fistful of food into his mouth. ‘We couldn’t keep Lady Jaundice trapped inside the ticker-dinger-thinger, and what with us underlings being usually goodly, honourous types, there didn’t have no prisons strong enough to hold her, she always escaped. So we built the Clunk. Everyone pitched in.’
Neville’s heart started racing.
‘You mean we’re going to visit my grandmooma?’
‘Indeedy!’ Clod yelled happily.
‘My
evil gonker grandmooma that hates me?’
‘S’right!’ said Malaria. ‘It’s awful funly. We all go and have a good look and a fun-poke every now and again.’
‘Where is the Clunk?’ said Neville. He could feel little beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
‘That’s the other surprise,’ said Clod, jumping up and waving his arms. ‘It’s on an island in the middle of the Undersea!’
‘The … the Undersea?’ Neville whispered. He hated water. He’d even failed his ‘One width of the pool’ swimming certificate.
‘You’re so adventurable,’ Clod said. ‘I bet you can’t wait to get out across the big wetty ocean.’
Neville opened his mouth … closed it … opened it again and fainted.
Rubella pointed and laughed.
Bedtime Stories
Neville woke up lying on the pile of stinking laundry in Rubella’s room.
‘Oh, there you are, youngling,’ came Clod’s voice. ‘I was worried you’d gone and popped your cogs.’
Neville scratched his head, adjusted his glasses and looked around the room. Clod came into view, sitting beside him. Rubella was in her hammock, reading her troll teen magazine.
‘What happened?’ asked Neville.
‘You got so excited about crossin’ the Undersea to visit your grandmooma Jaundice, you got a wee bit wobbly.’
Neville suddenly remembered what tomorrow’s plans were and wished he hadn’t asked.
‘You’ll love it,’ Clod said. ‘My dooda used to sail the big wetty when he was a bit fresher … and his dooda before that.’
Neville smiled a pathetic smile. Before today, he hadn’t even known there was an underground ocean and now he had to sail across it. Neville groaned inside. Clod looked so excited, how could he say no?
‘I think there’s time for one of my dooda’s old sea yarns before bed,’ Clod said.
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