The ticker-dinger-thinger, a giant troll-clock in the market square, BAAAANGED its morning bang and echoed across the town. Neville jolted awake and tumbled out on to Rubella’s bedroom floor like an oversized rag doll.
‘Ugh! Hello?’ he said, yawning. Neville had been fast asleep in his usual spot on top of Rubella’s laundry pile. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around the messy room. Rubella wasn’t in her hammock.
‘Belly?’ Neville called. Her pink tights and tutu were in a heap on the other side of the room and the bedroom door was wide open. Neville caught the familiar scent of moss cakes and warm pickled fisheyes drifting upstairs from the kitchen. How long had he slept?
Quickly untangling his legs from a large pair of Rubella’s knickers, Neville headed across the room and down the stairs. His tummy felt strange, but he wasn’t sure if hunger or nerves about the day ahead were the cause.
‘Here he is!’ Clod beamed as Neville reached the bottom step. ‘We were startin’ to think you weren’t comin’ down at all.’
‘Mornin’, my snizzler,’ said Malaria. ‘You’re gettin’ all lazy like your sister, you are. I’m so chuffly.’
‘Sorry,’ Neville said, yawning again. He was exhausted. Rubella had insisted they stay up for half the night practising her singing. After what seemed like hours, Neville had finally convinced her to sing a little more quietly and not shatter the remaining walls with her wailing, which at least felt like a bit of progress.
‘I don’t believe you, Nev!’ Rubella grunted. ‘You were supposed to help me get ready.’
Neville looked at his big troll-sister and stumbled off the last step in surprise. He wasn’t sure how many shocks he could take in such a short space of time.
Rubella had a new outfit on. She was wearing a dress like the flamenco dancers Neville had seen on his mum’s favourite TV show. The top half of it was bright putrid green with sparkly bottle-tops sewn round the collar, and there was a frilly purple skirt, which was short at the front and flowing at the back. She looked like a nightmarish peacock.
‘You look just like one of them princessy types, Belly,’ Malaria said, chuckling. She twisted Rubella’s bristly hair into a bun and tucked an old dead flower into it for extra princessliness.
‘I KNOW!’ Rubella snapped. ‘OF COURSE I DO.’
Neville looked at his troll-sister and felt his heart sinking. If she didn’t get the part she wanted in the pan-troll-mime, she’d blame him and yank his ears off. What was he going to do?
‘How’s about a wee snifflet of breakfast, Nev?’ said Clod, offering up a plate of moss cakes.
Neville reached out to take one, but Rubella’s great warty hand grabbed his wrist before he could.
‘I don’t think so,’ Rubella said. She had rosy painted cheeks and bright red lips that made her look even more demented than usual. ‘Eat later … We’ve got to get a move on, whelp. COME ON!’
With that, Rubella disappeared through the green curtain like a runaway circus tent, dragging Neville behind her.