No matter how many times Neville went down the toilet to visit his troll-family, butterflies always gurgled in his belly whenever he arrived.
In no time at all, Rubella and Neville had flopped out of the pipes and were heading through the familiar tunnel filled with milk-bottle lanterns towards the town of Underneath. Neville gripped Rubella’s shoulders and tried to ignore the nervous feeling swishing about inside him.
‘Is anybody hurt?’ he said into Rubella’s ear. She ignored him and carried on galumphing downhill. ‘Rubella?’
‘WHAT? ’ Rubella snapped. ‘Just shut your rat hole until we get there, OK? Can’t you see I’m worryin’ my noggin off, you dungle droppin’?’
Neville’s jaw fell open. What on earth could have happened? He started to feel sick with concern. What if his evil grandma, Lady Jaundice, had returned with her swashbungling crew? What if there had been a fire or a flood and the Bulch family home had been destroyed? What if someone was … DEAD?
Please not that!
Neville clenched his bottom, curled up his toes, scrunched his eyes tight and prayed to Captain Brilliant that no one was … was … He couldn’t even think it …
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the journey. Neville stared, wide-eyed, as they passed beneath the stone archway with the words welcome under carved across the top, and barely noticed the junk town beyond it.
He was way too nervous to enjoy the trip across the market square and the shortcut behind the priddle-players’ bandstand. He failed to take in the trolls going this way and that or the Bulches’ next-door neighbour, Gristle Pilchard, waving her walking stick and shouting ‘Hello!’ Neville hadn’t even realized they were walking up Washing Machine Hill until Rubella plonked him down on the ground.
‘Here we are,’ Rubella grunted. ‘This way.’
Neville shook his head and looked about, as though he was waking up all over again. They were in front of the Bulches’ jam-jar house. From the top of Washing Machine Hill, Neville could see the whole town spread out below him. The sight of all the ramshackle buildings made of junk and the thousands of milk-bottle lanterns twinkling in the darkness was a beautiful one, but it didn’t fill him with excitement. Although it was a relief to see it was all still there, he couldn’t help worrying about what Rubella had said.
Neville turned to Rubella and was just about to question her some more when Rabies, the Bulches’ giant pet troll-mole, came bounding round the edge of the house. He jumped up, resting his front paws on Neville’s shoulders and slobbered all over his cheek.
‘Good boy, Rabies,’ Neville said, gently nudging the enormous creature back to the ground. ‘Play nicely.’
‘Hurry up!’ Rubella said impatiently. Then a look of concern spread across her face. ‘But brace yourself, Nev …’
Rabies scampered away and Neville watched as his troll-sister clomped towards the green-curtained doorway. She brushed the tatty old thing aside and headed indoors.
Through the jam-jar walls, Neville could make out the blurred shapes of his troll-family. He counted them nervously.
‘There’s Pong,’ he thought out loud as a small mottled shape skittered about on the other side of the glass. ‘And that’s Mooma …’
Neville gasped; he could see his mooma’s shape bending over the big rusty stove, and Rubella flopping her backside on to a barrel seat. Pong was spinning and cartwheeling about under his mooma’s feet, but where was –?
‘DOODA?’ Neville cried and ran through the green curtain. Something must have happened to Clod! ‘DOODA! WHAT’S HAPPENED TO DOODA?’
Malaria, who was midway through stirring an enormous pan of left-sock stew, spun round and screamed. The clay pipe that hung from the corner of her mouth flew out and clattered on the floor, sending wisps of purple smoke around her feet.
‘BLLLOOOOOAAAAAAHHH!’ Pong shrieked with glee. He waddled over to where Neville stood and hugged him excitedly.
‘OH MY GRACICLES!’ Malaria shouted, clutching her spade-sized hands to her cheeks. ‘Nev, what’re you doin’ ’ere, lump?’ She darted towards Neville and scooped him up in a troll-hug. ‘I was never expectoratin’ you … What a squibbly surprise.’
‘Where’s Dooda?’ Neville hugged Malaria round her thick neck. ‘What’s happened to him, Mooma?’
‘Eh?’ Malaria said.
‘Just be honest,’ Neville sobbed. Tears were already streaking down his cheeks. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘What’s jumbled you, Nev? You’re shakin’,’ Malaria said, raising him to the level of her copper-coloured eyes. ‘Clod’s not deadsy.’
‘He’s not?’ Neville wiped his eyes on the back of his pyjama sleeve. ‘So … is he alive, but really, really hurt? Arghh! What happened?’
‘Nev, pick up your pieces,’ said Malaria with a surprised look on her face. She hugged him tightly. ‘I don’t know what whoppsy great fibbers you’ve been listenin’ to! Dooda’s fine and chuffly … He’s snizzlin’ upstairs, ’avin a nap.’
‘What?’ Neville said, heaving an enormous sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or faint. ‘But, if nothing’s happened to Dooda, what’s the emergency?’
‘Emergency?’ Malaria chuckled. ‘There ain’t no emergency …’
THUD … THUD … THUD … THUD … THUD …
Clod appeared at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning. ‘’Ere, what’s all this hollerin’?’ he said.
‘Clod, my honker,’ Malaria said, beaming. ‘Look who’s come to visit!’
She held Neville up at arm’s length.
Clod rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and stared for a moment. Then he focused on Neville and his face lit up into a huge, wide grin.
‘NEV!’ Clod yelled, jumping into the air. ‘What a sight for sleepy peepers!’ He thudded across the kitchen and threw his arms round Neville and Malaria. ‘I’m as honkhumptious as a hump-honker.’
Neville burst into tears again. ‘I’m so glad to see you!’ he blubbed, planting a kiss on his dooda’s rough cheek. ‘I thought you were … I thought you were …’
‘Go on … tell ’im,’ said Malaria, chuckling.
‘Dead,’ Neville whispered.
‘You thought I’d popped me conkers?’ Clod laughed. ‘What gave you an idea like that?’
‘Well … it’s just that Rubella told me …’ Neville glanced at his troll-sister. She was twiddling her great stumpish thumbs at the dinner table and staring suspiciously at the floor.
‘Belly told you what?’ Malaria asked. She turned and looked at her daughter. ‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Rubella woke me up and said there was an emergency,’ insisted Neville.
‘WOKE YOU UP?’ Clod looked so shocked, Neville thought he might fall down. ‘D’YOU MEAN TO SAY YOU’VE BEEN UP AND OUT THE TOILET? What’s all this about, Rubella?’
‘Nothin’,’ Rubella mumbled, still staring at the floor.
‘What d’you mean, nothin’?’ Malaria barked. ‘You can’t go wifflin’ up the pipes on your own. Look at all the trouble Pong caused when he did it.’
Pong giggled, then copied his mooma and waggled a finger at his big sister.
‘Come on, youngling,’ Clod said, marching over to Rubella’s side. ‘Out with it!’
‘I needed Nev’s help.’
‘What for?’ said Clod.
Rubella shrugged and said nothing.
‘WHAT FOR?’ Malaria bellowed.
‘IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!’
‘If you don’t explain right now, you rambunkin’ little madam,’ said Clod, folding his arms, ‘you’ll have no seconds, or thirds, or fourths at dinner.’
Rubella sat up and stared at the rest of her family. She wasn’t about to miss out on food. Her bottom lip started trembling and her face screwed up into a grimace. Then she took a deep breath, gripped hold of the edge of the dinner table, opened her mouth to speak and …