by Kaye Umansky
‘Yeah, but they can’t act,’ the Tree Demon pointed out.
‘Does that matter, though? Gnome and Away is still very popular,’ mused Ali.
‘Not as popular as The News,’ Sheridan Haggard slipped in smoothly. ‘They’re calling me The Skeleton with the Golden Voice. It was in yesterday’s paper. I take it you all saw the article?’
There was something very annoying about Sheridan Haggard. Vincent Van Ghoul and the Tree Demon caught each other’s eye.
‘Of course,’ said the Tree Demon sourly, ‘of course, you were actually second choice. Boss here tried to get Scott Sinister to read the news, but he was too expensive. Right, boss?’
‘Ahhhh,’ said Ali Pali, glibly sidestepping the question as the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt came rushing up with a tray full of steaming mugs. ‘Tea. Excellent.’
‘Did you?’ enquired Sheridan Haggard in tones of rich indignation.
‘Did I what?’ asked Ali Pali, sipping his tea.
‘Did you try to get Scott Sinister?’
‘Now, why would I do that when I have you at half the price, Sheridan? Besides, he’s away on location, as you well know, since you are currently renting his castle.’
This was true. Scott Sinister, the famous film star (and, incidentally, Pongwiffy’s dreamboat), was currently off making Return of the Avenging Killer Poodles V. Sheridan Haggard was renting Scott’s holiday retreat, in order to be near the studio.
‘I said no tea,’ complained Sheridan Haggard, flinching as a chipped mug was dumped before him. ‘Where’s my champagne?’
‘I can’t afford champagne,’ snapped Ali Pali sharply. ‘Not after your last pay rise. You are costing me a fortune, Sheridan, with your exotic celebrity lifestyle, your fancy ties and your fancy car and your expensive drinks. I’m a hardbitten business Genie. You’d better be worth it. You’d better hope your popularity lasts.’
‘Ooh,’ said Sheridan to the room in general. ‘Get him.’
‘I am just saying. And while we’re on the subject, I’m not paying out for your entourage any more. Your butler and your chauffeur and your minders. You have to get rid of them.’
‘But who will do all the work?’ cried Sheridan, horrified. ‘I am a professional newsreader! I must have some help. What will my fans think?’
‘Hmm. Well, I’ll think about it. All I am saying is, don’t push your luck. Now then. Back to business. Ideas for new programmes. Head of Glamour? Any suggestions?’
‘You what?’ said Brenda, beginning on her second foot.
‘You have just been made Head of Glamour, Brenda. You are meant to cover the female angle and come up with glamorous ideas.’
‘What, now? While I’m doin’ me feet?’
‘Never mind, dear,’ said Sheridan Haggard spitefully. ‘You stick to what you’re good at.’
‘What about Luscious Lulu Lamarre, the actress?’ suggested Vincent Van Ghoul. ‘Couldn’t we get her? She could do an hour’s special. Singing and dancing and showing her talents. Right, TD?’
‘Cor, yeah,’ said the Tree Demon, brightening up.
Sheridan Haggard frowned. He didn’t want famous actresses stealing his thunder.
‘Sadly, we can’t afford her,’ sighed Ali Pali, and Sheridan relaxed. ‘Besides, I ask myself, do we need a star? What do the viewers really want? Yes, thank you, Sheridan, I know they want you. But what else? Know what I think? I think they want programmes with the common touch. They want to see people just like them on spello.’
‘So,’ said Vincent reflectively. ‘You’re saying we need a programme that’ll appeal to everybody.’
‘Exactly. And preferably cheap. So don’t suggest sending people off to faraway islands or quiz programmes where we give away money.’
‘What about a sporting event?’ suggested Vincent thoughtfully. ‘A marathon, or something?’
‘Hmm. Not everyone likes sport. But a competition of some sort – that’s a good idea. Something like . . . like . . .’
Everyone blinked at the sudden flash of green light, followed by a thick cloud of evil-smelling smoke. Ali Pali choked on his tea, Brenda spilled her nail varnish and Ribs clattered down from his master’s lap and hid under the table.
‘Singing Witches,’ finished off Pongwiffy, briskly stepping out of the green murk. She tucked her Wand away and stared around at the startled company, who were busily choking and mopping up spills. ‘That’s what you need.’
‘Oh,’ said Ali Pali, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘It’s you, Pongwiffy. And that ridiculous Hamster.’ He sounded glum.
‘Hey,’ said Hugo, from Pongwiffy’s hat. ‘Votch it.’
(It should be explained that there is quite a bit of history between Pongwiffy and Ali Pali. Their paths have crossed before. They have a wary respect for each other’s talents, but are not what you would call good friends. The same can be said about Vincent Van Ghoul, the Tree Demon, Brenda and the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt, all of whom have had previous dealings with Pongwiffy.)
‘You’re darn right it’s me. How’s it going, Pali? I might have known you’d be behind this spellovision racket. It’s your sort of thing, isn’t it? Always got an eye open for the main chance. And look who’s here! Vincent Van Ghoul and the Tree Demon, wouldn’t you know. Well, well, well. Hey, you!’ She pointed at the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt. ‘I’ll have a mug of tea, if there’s one going.’
‘What are you doing here, Pongwiffy?’ demanded Ali Pali wearily. ‘This is a private meeting. You can’t just come barging in.’
‘I’ve come with a message from Grandwitch Sourmuddle. She says we Witches want to be on spello and you’ve got to come and make pictures of us singing or she’ll want to know the reason why.’
‘I’ll tell her why,’ said Ali Pali. ‘Because nobody would watch it, that’s why.’
‘Witches would,’ pointed out Pongwiffy reasonably.
‘But not all viewers are Witches, are they? What about the rest of the viewing public? Can you see anyone else tuning in to hear Singing Witches? Vincent. You’re a Vampire. Would you?’
‘I’d sooner lie on a sunbed eating a garlic sandwich,’ said Vincent Van Ghoul.
‘But we’re good!’ argued Pongwiffy. ‘Better than the other rubbish you show. Tell them, Hugo. Aren’t we good?’
‘It’s not a question of good or bad,’ explained Ali Pali. ‘It’s a question of what the viewers want. If you really want to know, I am looking for new programmes. If I thought Singing Witches would make people switch on, I’d be most happy to send the crew along. But, sadly . . .’
‘Shh,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Stop yapping. My Familiar wants a consultation.’
Hugo had dropped on to her shoulder and was tugging at her earlobe. Pongwiffy inclined her head, and he proceeded to hiss in her ear. As he talked, a grin began to spread across her face.
Sheridan Haggard, the only one who didn’t know Pongwiffy, said, in his most pompous golden-brown tones, ‘My dear madam, I don’t know who you are, but I really don’t think . . .’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Pongwiffy, staring at him coldly. ‘We’re consulting.’
Sheridan subsided. The Thing shoved a mug of tea into Pongwiffy’s hand. She took a loud slurp, then listened some more, nodding and grinning as Hugo whispered. Another minute or so dragged by. And then, ‘Got it!’ cried Pongwiffy triumphantly. She thumped on the table. Ali Pali’s inkpot crashed to the floor. ‘A Song Contest!’
‘What?’
‘A Spellovision Song Contest. It’s brilliant. Everyone gets the chance to enter an original song.’ Again, Hugo whispered in her ear. ‘Well, everyone except Goblins, of course. And you film it while it happens and then the public votes for their favourite.’
Hugo whispered again.
‘Better still,’ continued Pongwiffy, ‘there could be specially selected juries. And a really good prize for the winners, like a big silver cup and a week’s all-expenses-paid holiday at Sludgehaven-on-Sea. You could get someone famo
us to present it.’
‘Well, of course, I suppose I could –’ began Sheridan Haggard, but he was cut off by Pongwiffy.
‘I mean really famous. A proper star. Not some minor celebrity with a daft voice.’
‘Now, look here . . .’
‘Scott Sinister, for example. He’s a friend of mine.’
This wasn’t strictly true. By no stretch of the imagination was the famous star Pongwiffy’s friend.
‘Ha!’ sneered Sheridan Haggard. ‘A likely story!’
‘But the money!’ fretted Ali Pali. ‘The studio’s been losing money hand over fist. All those prizes . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Pongwiffy uncertainly. ‘Yes. Well. I expect I’ll think of an idea of how you can solve that. Won’t I, Hugo?’
‘Ya,’ said Hugo, who was tired of whispering. He spoke to Ali directly. ‘Easy. You make it pay for itself. Charge ze advertisers. Zey pay big money to get zeir product on zat night. And get live audience to come and votch. Charge zem too. Offer special deal on spello sets. Lots of publicity. Lots of pizzazz!’
‘He’s right, you know,’ said Vincent Van Ghoul to the Tree Demon. ‘It could work.’
‘She’s right, you mean,’ Pongwiffy corrected him. ‘This is my brilliant idea, you know. So what do you think?’
She directed the question at Ali Pali, who was currently sucking his flashiest medallion and staring into space. He gave a little start and came back to earth.
‘What do I think? I’ll tell you what I think.’ He held out his hand. His mouth split, revealing a lot of white, shiny teeth. ‘Pongwiffy, allow me to congratulate you. It is a brilliant idea. An inspiring idea. In fact, I wish I’d thought of it myself.’
‘You do?’ said Pongwiffy, preening a bit. (Flattery didn’t come her way often.)
‘I do. Perhaps we can put our differences behind us and you would consider becoming my Head of Programming – and your Hamster, of course?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ promised Pongwiffy, ‘but I don’t hold out too much hope. I’m not sure I can fit it in. My music is all-consuming. I’ve given you the grand idea; it’s up to you to work out the details. As long as we Witches win, I don’t care. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a song to write.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheridan Haggard, Newsreader
It was the following evening. Sheridan Haggard sat at the dining table, reading the latest article about himself in The Daily Miracle. He was wearing a crimson silk kimono embroidered with skeletal dragons. Gold-framed reading glasses perched on the bony ridge between his eye sockets. Expensive rings flashed on his metacarpals (finger bones to you). Ribs sat on an expensive Persian rug, chewing a bone, of all things.
‘Listen to this, Thing,’ commanded Sheridan. ‘There’s another big piece about me in the paper.’
The Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt was currently clearing away the supper dishes. Its job as Everything Else Boy had recently expanded to being Sheridan’s entire entourage. It was chief cook and bottle-washer, chauffeur, valet, skull masseur, minder – well, you get the idea. By replacing Sheridan’s posse of grovelling attendants with the Thing, Ali Pali had neatly solved the problem of how to save money and keep Sheridan happy at the same time.
Right now, the Thing was in butler mode. It wore a dark suit and a bow tie. At its master’s command, it obediently set down its tray and adopted a polite listening pose.
‘Sheridan Haggard, the Golden Voice of spellovision, will be opening Wraithways, the new supermarket, shortly before midnight tonight,’ read Sheridan Haggard. ‘Large crowds are expected. The popular newsreader has really caught the public’s imagination, with his velvet tones and polished charm. It is hoped he will be bringing along Ribs, his charming little dog, a firm favourite with the kiddies. Hear that, Ribs? Children love you.’
‘Woof,’ said Ribs, worrying his bone.
‘Will I need the chauffeur’s hat, boss?’ asked the Thing. It had a lot of hats and small props. It was the only way it could remember who it was supposed to be.
‘Most certainly,’ agreed Sheridan. ‘Clear away the dishes, set out my white shirt and opera cloak, then bring the limo round. Go on, hop to it. I can’t be late. I’m an important man. After I’ve opened the supermarket, I have to be back in the studio in time for The News. I live for those bulletins, you know. It’s only before a camera that I become truly alive.’
The Thing scooped everything on to the tray and hurtled out through the door.
Sheridan rose to his feet and stretched luxuriously. This was the life! Champagne and caviar on tap. A chauffeur-driven limousine. Flattering articles in the paper. Cheering crowds whenever he showed his skull in public. A huge salary and an enormous expense account which enabled him to rent a grand castle. And all because he happened to have a rich, golden-brown voice.
Lucky or what?
A short time later, dressed in frilly shirt and sweeping cloak, Sheridan stood before the castle gates, Ribs in his arms, waiting for the Thing to bring up the limo.
As always, a small crowd of diehard fans was there to witness his departure. The Skeleton with the blonde wig was there, holding a bunch of wilting daisies. There was a Troll family, consisting of Mum, Dad, Grandma and two small, shy Troll toddlers. Dad had a camera. The toddlers clutched autograph books.
‘Go on, Gravella, ask him!’ hissed the mother Troll, giving the girl toddler a shove. You could tell she was a girl because she was wearing a pink sun bonnet. She took her thumb out of her mouth, toddled forward and thrust out the book. Ribs liked children. He wagged his tail and gave a happy little woof.
‘Pleathe, thir, can I have your autograph?’ whispered little Gravella shyly. The dad Troll readied his camera.
Sheridan looked down from his great height.
‘Not now, small girl,’ he said haughtily. ‘I’m not in the mood.’ And he stared pointedly up at the moon, tapping his foot impatiently.
Tears welled up in little Gravella’s eyes. She flushed, looked around uncertainly, then walked back to her family and buried her face in the folds of her mother’s frock.
There came a low purring, a glint of moonlight on polished chrome and the long black limousine slid up to the gates. The Thing was at the wheel, wearing leather driving gloves and a chauffeur’s hat perched at a jaunty angle. It jumped out, leaving the engine running, and scuttled round to open the back door. A rich smell of leather wafted from the interior.
Sheridan folded his tall frame and climbed in, placing Ribs on a special cushion. The door clicked shut and the Thing hopped back in the driver’s seat. The Skeleton with the daisies moved forward hesitantly, holding out her flowers, then leapt back with a startled cry as the car pulled away. The bunch of daisies fell to the ground and was thoroughly mashed by the back wheel.
‘So tedious,’ sighed Sheridan, as the limousine picked up speed and the little group of fans receded into the distance. ‘No respect for privacy. Have they never heard the phrase, A Skeleton’s home is his castle?’
‘Ain’t strickly your castle, though, is it, boss?’ observed the Thing, steering efficiently around the trees. ‘Belongs to Scott Sinister.’
‘Ha!’ Sheridan let out a short, derisive bark. Ribs looked up anxiously, then went back to crunching the jewels off his collar. ‘Don’t mention that name to me.’
‘What, Scott Sinister?’
‘I said don’t mention it!’
‘Why not?’ enquired the Thing innocently, honking at a rabbit.
‘Because the man’s an overrated charlatan, that’s why.’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ argued the Thing, nudging the car on to the main trail, which wound through Witchway Wood. ‘He was good as the daddy in The Mummy’s Curse.’
‘I didn’t see it,’ sniffed Sheridan.
‘He was good. ’Course, he dropped off a bit after Return of the Avenging Killer Poodles IV. But they say the next one’s gonna be a cracker. And that leadin’ lady of his, that Lulu Lamarre, she’s a bit of a
ll right an’ all.’
‘Look,’ said Sheridan through tight jaws, ‘I said I didn’t want to talk about him. The only good thing about Sinister is his castle, which I must admit is quite comfortable. But then, so it should be, with the excessive rent he’s charging. Drive faster, we’re late.’
‘He’s a proper star, though, isn’t he?’ persisted the Thing, who was indeed a fan. ‘You gotta admit it. Why, he’s got the whole world at his feet – oi!’ Brakes were suddenly applied, the limo slowed to a crawl, and the Thing wound down the window and leaned heavily on the horn. ‘Out of the way, losers!’
Seven figures were directly ahead, trudging along the middle of the road. They halted and stared over their shoulders, caught in the glare of the headlights like startled rabbits.
‘Now what!’ exploded Sheridan.
‘Goblins,’ said the Thing with a grin, hunkering down and revving the engine. ‘Hold tight, boss. I’ll scatter ’em.’
It pressed the accelerator and the limousine leapt forward, sleek, smooth and deadly as a car-shaped panther.
The Goblins scattered all right. With wild little squawks and howls, they dived for the bushes. Horn blaring, the limousine carved a path through them and vanished in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke.
There was a short pause. Then, one by one, seven Goblin heads emerged from the bushes.
Now, you would expect them to be furious, wouldn’t you? Mown down like that, without any warning. But they weren’t. Oh no. Their faces wore the same trance-like expression as when they had been watching spellovision through Macabre’s window.
As one, they faced the point in the distance where the limousine had vanished. Then, slowly, as one, they said, in tones of deepest admiration and envious wonderment, ‘Phwoarh!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Songwriting
We haven’t seen each other for a bit, have we, Hugo?’ observed Pongwiffy. She was sitting in her rocking chair, guitar cradled in her arms, waiting for Sharkadder to come round to visit. ‘Not since music took over my life.’
