by Kaye Umansky
‘No one ever said nuffin’ about no tickets,’ complained Plugugly, finally seeing the light. ‘Did dey?’ he appealed to the Goblins behind.
Everyone agreed that nobody had said anything about tickets. There was an anxious silence.
‘So are you lettin’ us in, den, or what?’ asked Plugugly after a bit.
‘Got any money?’ asked the Arm.
A hasty trawl of the Goblins’ pockets and backpacks produced quite a pile of interesting things. Ancient sweet wrappers. Crisp socks. A short, heavily knotted piece of old bootlace. A fossilized apple core. A safety pin. The exhaust pipe off a motorbike. Part of an old mangle. Unpleasant handkerchiefs. Three rusty keys. A photograph of Sproggit’s mum. Enough fluff to stuff a mattress. But money, sadly, was conspicuous by its absence.
‘Can’t we owe you?’ asked Plugugly desperately.
‘Nope,’ said the Arm. ‘You gotta have a ticket or gimme some dosh.’
The Goblins simply couldn’t take it in. They stared at the Arm blocking their way in slack-jawed disbelief. To suffer all that hardship, walk all those miles and then to be told to clear off? It was just too ghastly to contemplate.
It was Hog who finally broke the silence. He gave a shrill howl, threw himself full-length on the ground and began to pummel the grass with his fists. This was the cue for Slopbucket to stuff his knuckles in his eyes and start up a horrible wailing. Eyesore, Lardo and Stinkwart formed a circle and began to perform a dance which is known in Goblin circles as the Fed Up Stomp, and consists of stamping as hard as you can on someone else’s foot while simultaneously pulling your hair, beating your breast and gnashing your teeth. (Ideally, it should be performed at full moon, but this was an emergency.)
Sproggit, with a shrill scream of frustration, ran at the tall fence which bordered Gobboworld and thumped it as hard as he could.
To his surprise, his arm went through.
‘’Ere!’ hissed Sproggit. ‘Over ’ere! Dis fence musta bin built by Goblins. Look, me arm’s gone in! There’s an ’ole!’
Sure enough, there was. A neat, fist-shaped one. Eagerly, Sproggit applied his eye to it. And oh, what sights he saw inside! It was enough to make a Goblin weep.
He saw the Bobble Hat of Doom – a great swing in the shape of an upturned bobble hat, full to the brim with laughing thrill-seekers. Even as he watched, it turned in a full circle, sending its shrieking passengers plummeting head first into a large pool of warm, bubbling mud, which had been thoughtfully placed below.
He saw bungee-jumping with elastic that was just that bit too long. He saw a roller coaster with an interesting gap right at the top. He saw a helter-skelter which had been made even more exciting with the addition of a wall at the bottom. He saw . . .
‘Less ’ave a decko, then,’ complained Slopbucket, pulling at Sproggit’s jumper. ‘You’ve ’ad long enough, Sproggit. It’s my turn now.’
‘No it ain’t, it’s mine,’ protested Hog. ‘I was ’ere first.’
‘No you wasn’t! I was!’ insisted Slopbucket, raising his voice.
‘Oi!’ boomed the voice of the Arm from the booth. ‘You get away from that fence, you lot! Think I can’t see you? Go on, clear orf. Shan’t tell you again.’
‘I wuz only looking,’ whined Sproggit piteously, tearing his eye away with great reluctance. ‘It’s a free country.’
‘Not in Gobboworld, it ain’t. See this arm?’
The fingers closed in a great, tight fist and the muscles wriggled ominously.
‘Yeah?’ said Plugugly, Hog, Lardo, Eyesore, Stinkwart, Slopbucket and Sproggit.
‘Wanna see what it’s attached to?’
The Goblins shook their heads. No. They didn’t. They tore themselves away from the hole in the fence and stood in a subdued little cluster.
‘Now what do we do?’ Hog enquired brokenly.
‘Go ’ome, I suppose,’ said Lardo, kicking dully at a stone, which flipped up and hit Eyesore in the eye. Eyesore was so depressed he couldn’t even be bothered to make a thing of it.
‘I suppose we oughter look at de sea while we’re here,’ said Plugugly with a huge sigh.
‘Why?’ asked Slopbucket uninterestedly. ‘What’s so special about the sea? Nasty, big, grey, wet, sloppy thing, the sea. What we wanna look at that for?’
‘I dunno,’ said Plugugly with a shrug. ‘Traditional, innit? Come to de seaside, gotta look at de sea. Anyway, you got any better idears?’
Nobody had. So, muttering miserably, they trailed off towards the edge of the cliff.
And there they stood, hands in pockets, beside themselves with grief and disappointment, looking out over the heaving waves . . .
On which bobbed a little boat. Or, rather, on which sank a little boat. Even as the Goblins watched, it gave up the unequal struggle and vanished beneath the surface, depositing its six passengers into the water.
But not before the Goblins recognised them. Oh dear me. They knew those passengers all right.
‘Boys,’ said Plugugly, ‘I reckon our luck’s just turned.’
‘Oh yeah? ’Ow’s that, then, Plug?’ asked Hog, watching the tragedy at sea with interest.
‘Because,’ said Plugugly slowly, ‘because I got an idear.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Captured!
A short while later, the Goblins once again stood at the ticket booth.
‘You again,’ said the Arm.
‘Yep,’ said Plugugly.
‘Got yer tickets this time?’ demanded the Arm with a sneer.
‘Nope,’ said Plugugly cheerfully. He had been through this little ritual before. He knew what to expect. He had all the right answers ready.
‘Got any money?’
‘Nope. We got summink better, ain’t we, boys?’
‘Yer!’
‘Too right we ’ave!’
Excitedly, the Goblins agreed that they had indeed got something better. Something much, much better.
‘Oh yeah? And what might that be?’ the Arm asked with a sneer.
This was Plugugly’s big moment.
‘Step back, boys,’ he commanded in ringing tones. ‘Let ’im see de new Main Attraction!’
And the Goblins stood aside and the Arm got his first eyeful of the bedraggled, sorry-looking bunch that stood in an exhausted, dripping huddle behind them.
The captives glared back sullenly. It had been a long, hard swim to shore after the boat had capsized. Waves had buffeted them. Fish had nibbled them. Sharp rocks had grazed their knees. It was only due to the pockets of air trapped in Ronald’s shorts (thus keeping them afloat) that they had made it at all.
Then, to add insult to injury, the minute they crawled thankfully on to dry land, they had fallen into enemy hands! To their great surprise and eternal shame, they had been pounced on by none other than Plugugly and Co, and tied up with a long, improvised rope consisting of Slopbucket’s scarf, Lardo’s braces and a heavily knotted fragment of Hog’s old boot-lace.
Pounced on! Tied up! By Goblins, of all things!
‘It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is,’ hissed Pongwiffy to Sharkadder through clenched teeth. She only normally took one bath a year, and her sudden enforced dip in the briny had put her in a very bad mood indeed.
Sharkadder, busily squeezing water from her ruined hair, said nothing. But she glowered a great deal.
Lulu, who had quite spoiled her dress as well as losing her wig and one of her gold shoes, was weeping noisily – a sort of horrible lead singer caterwauling to which Ronald’s chattering teeth provided a kind of castanet rhythm section.
Poor Ronald. Of all of them, he had suffered the most. Being, as you might expect, an abysmally poor swimmer, he had swallowed a great deal of sea water and looked as though he was shortly about to be very poorly indeed.
Both Hugo and Dudley were past caring. Their fur was plastered to their backs. Despite their tales of past daring exploits on the high seas, neither had proved to be a good swimmer. They were both so exhaus
ted, they couldn’t even lick themselves dry.
The sight of the sodden party obviously had an effect on the Arm. There came a startled gasp from the booth.
‘Well, boil my bobble ’at! What you got there, then?’
‘Told you,’ said Plugugly with pride. ‘Amazin’ what de sea washes up. Two Witches, a Wizard in shorts, a Superstar an’ a coupla cut-price Familiars. Not a bad catch, eh?’
It wasn’t. For Goblins, who traditionally never caught anything, it was nothing short of miraculous.
‘’Old it right there,’ said the Arm excitedly. ‘I’ll ’ave ter consult wiv my colleagues.’
And there came the sound of a door slamming, followed by the sound of rapidly disappearing footsteps.
The Goblins exchanged satisfied beams. Things really were looking up.
‘D’you know what I could go for now?’ remarked Hog. ‘A nice, big, greasy plate o’ chips. To celebrate.’
At this point, the sea water in Ronald’s stomach made a noisy reappearance.
‘I’ll get you for this, Plugugly,’ snarled Pongwiffy, baring her teeth most unpleasantly. ‘Just see if I don’t.’
‘Why? What you gonna do? Squelch us?’ taunted Sproggit – a brilliantly witty remark which set the Goblins rocking with laughter.
‘You can’t put spells on us this time,’ Slopbucket reminded her sneeringly. ‘We ain’t at ’ome now. There’s a NO MAGIC rule in Sludgehaven, an’ if you break it, we’ll tell. So na, na, na, na, na!’
And he poked his tongue out and waggled his fingers on his nose, which was typical.
‘I s-s-s-say!’ said Ronald, who had suddenly found his voice. It had been lost for ages somewhere deep down in his stomach, along with the sea water. And now, like the sea water, it was back again! ‘I say! You’d b-better jolly well loosen these b-b-bonds and let me go this minute. I’ll have you know I’m a W-Wizard. I demand to be let go at once.’
‘You’re our ’ostage. You ain’t going nowhere,’ Hog told him cheerfully.
‘That’s right. We got plans fer you. Anyway, you can’t do a fing wivout yer silly ole Wizard robes, can yer?’ taunted Lardo.
‘A Wizard always needs ’is kit,
Or else ’e can’t do doodly-squit,’
chanted Sproggit. It was an old Goblin rhyme which all Goblins learn at their mothers’ knees. Unlike most old Goblin rhymes, it rang true.
‘Is that true, Ronald? Can’t you?’ demanded Sharkadder.
Ronald flushed and bit his chattering lip. It was true. He couldn’t. Wizardry depends on the paraphernalia. Without his Cloak of Darkness and his Hat of Knowledge and his Robe of Mystery and his Staff of Wisdom and whatnot, he was helpless. Cold, too.
‘Well, I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, after all that education,’ said Sharkadder cuttingly. ‘Just think. A nephew of mine. Can’t even summon up a bit of lightning without his trousers on. Tut tut. What do they teach in Wizard school these days?’
‘Well, it’s more the theory side of things . . .’ Ronald began desperately, but Pongwiffy stood on his foot and after a short squawk he went quiet.
‘Oi! Wizard! Let’s see yer do a spell in them shorts!’ jeered Hog, enjoying the comic potential of Ronald and not wishing to let it go.
‘ ’Ere! ’E could do a spell that makes everyone ’oo sees ’im laugh at ’im!’ suggested Eyesore, adding, ‘ ’Ere! It’s workin’!’
This made the Goblins so helpless with laughter that Pongwiffy almost considered suggesting they make a run for it. But she decided against it. Afterall, they were still tied up. In their current weakened state, they wouldn’t get more than two paces without someone tripping up, and then they’d all fall down and be an even bigger laughing stock than they were already.
‘I fink we should apologise to de lady, though,’ said Plugugly with a sudden show of gallantry. Lulu stopped bawling, and gave a hopeful sniff. ‘Dat’s Luscious Lulu Lamarre de Superstar, dat is. I seen ’er picture. ’Course, she ain’t too luscious right now, but dat’s ’cos she’s all wet.’
Lulu began to snivel again.
‘Dere, dere, don’t you go gettin’ all upset,’ Plugugly said, patting her on the shoulder. ‘We hasn’t got nuffin’ against you. Come on, boys, show de lady dat Goblins got manners. Line up an take yer ’ats off an’ say yer sorry.’
Obediently, the Goblins lined up and solemnly said they were sorry. Lulu fluffed her hair and cheered up a bit, especially when Slopbucket confessed sheepishly that he was a big fan. ‘But we can’t let you go,’ Plugugly explained sadly. ‘You’re part of de Main Attraction, see.’
‘I’ll give you Main Attraction!’ snarled Pongwiffy, nearly bursting with fury. ‘I’ll zap you into next week, I will! I’ll . . .’
‘Naughty, naughty!’ jeered Lardo, waggling his finger. ‘The Rule. Remember?’
‘I’ll give you Rule . . .’ began Pongwiffy recklessly.
But luckily – or unluckily, as it turned out for some – at that moment, something happened. The music which had been continuously droning on in the background suddenly ceased. There was a silence – then a rumbling noise. Everyone turned to look at the great gates of Gobboworld, which gave a little shudder, opened a bit, stuck, then slowly, dramatically, drew apart.
‘In yer go, then, sir,’ said the Arm from the booth. ‘I got instructions ter let yer pass.’
‘Dis is it, den,’ said Plugugly, swelling with pride. He’d never been called ‘sir’ before. ‘Our big moment. Straighten up, you ’ostages. We’re goin’ in. Quick march. Er – ’ow’s it go again?’
‘Summink about right an’ left, ain’t it?’ said Hog, scratching his head.
‘Dat’s it! Right, ’ere we go. Right, right, left, right, right, left, er – left . . .’
And – somehow – in they went.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Postcards
Back in Sludgehaven, blissfully unaware of the plight of their friends, the Witches were having the time of their lives. Bendyshanks, Ratsnappy and Sludgegooey were reclining in deckchairs on the promenade, busily writing postcards.
‘Dear Great-Aunt Grimelda,’ wrote Sludgegooey. ‘Well, here we all are on our hols. It’s all go. Yesterday we slimed a Punch and Judy Demon, which was a right lark. Gaga’s learnt to waterski. Filth is getting quite a tan. Wish you were here. All the best, your loving niece, Sludgegooey.’
‘How d’you spell “disgusting”?’ enquired Ratsnappy, sucking her pencil. ‘I want to tell my cousin Catnippy about Old Molotoff’s breakfasts,’ she explained.
‘How should I know? Ask Greymatter,’ suggested Sludgegooey, sticking a stamp on.
‘I daren’t. She’s still stuck on One Across. Here come the twins, look. Hey, you two! What’s that you’ve caught?’
‘Minnows,’ said Agglebag proudly, showing her jam jar. ‘Two of them. Twins, we think. We’re taking them home, aren’t we, Ag? To live happily ever after on our mantelpiece. We’re calling them Minnie and Manfred.’
‘How d’you know which is Manfred?’ asked Sludgegooey doubtfully.
‘We don’t yet,’ confessed Bagaggle. ‘But when we get home, Ag’s going to knit him a little waterproof tie.’
‘And Bag’s going to make a little bow for Minnie,’ agreed Bagaggle. ‘We’re good with our hands.’
This interesting conversation was interrupted by a further arrival. Scrofula and Macabre turned up with Barry and Rory in tow. They were all very excited, having found a little shop that sold sandwiches with decent, Witch-friendly fillings, including porridge.
‘This is more like it,’ said Macabre, parking herself in a deckchair and taking a huge bite of her porridge sandwich. ‘This’ll help make up for breakfast – or the lack of it. Anyone seen Bonidle?’
‘Still in bed,’ sighed Ratsnappy. She had the misfortune to be sharing a room with Bonidle, whose life was one long lie-in. ‘I can’t get her up. Cyril had to hoover under her this morning. Old Molotoff’s quite put out about it.’
/> ‘What about Gaga?’ someone else wanted to know.
‘Scuba-diving,’ said Scrofula.
There was a short silence. Nobody quite knew what scubas were, or why anyone should want to dive for them – but it sounded a Gaga-ish sort of thing to do.
‘Pongwiffy and Sharkadder still missing?’ enquired Scrofula. A general nodding of heads signified that this was indeed the case. Nobody had seen them since breakfast.
‘Ah well. Probably got tied up somewhere,’ said Ratsnappy.
‘Here comes Sourmuddle,’ announced Macabre, pointing to an excited figure hurrying towards them with Snoop hard on her heels.
‘Ah! There you are! We’ve been looking for you,’ puffed Sourmuddle, waving a handful of little pink slips. ‘I’ve got a lovely surprise for us all. My friend at the Rifle Range gave me all these free seats for this afternoon’s Mystery Tour!’
Joyous cries greeted this announcement. Everyone wanted to know what a Mystery Tour was.
‘We all get on a coach and it takes us somewhere mysterious,’ explained Sourmuddle.
‘Where?’ asked Macabre.
‘If we knew that, Macabre, there wouldn’t be a mystery, would there?’
‘Supposing we don’t like it when we get there?’ objected Ratsnappy, who liked to be awkward.
‘I shall demand a refund,’ said Sourmuddle airily.
‘I thought you said the seats were free?’
‘So?’ said Sourmuddle. ‘I shall still demand a refund. I’m Grandwitch. I know my rights.’
So that was all right.
Meanwhile, up at the Magician’s Retreat . . .
‘I’m not at all sure about this Mystery Tour business, you know,’ Fred the Flameraiser was saying. ‘On a coach, do you say? Sounds a bit too adventurous for my liking. Will I be allowed to set fire to anything, do you think?’
‘Oh, I should think so,’ said Dave the Druid, helping himself to another scone. ‘We’re Wizards, aren’t we? Nobody tells us what to do.’
The Wizards were sitting in the lounge, tucking into lunch. Lunch, by popular request, was a cream tea set out on hostess trolleys. There were mountains of scones, vats of jam and great jugs of cream. There was much rattling of teacups and licking of fingers and greedy spooning of jam, which almost drowned out the sound of voices droning on drily in the Conference Room next door.