‘I might just do that,’ Fang conceded. ‘Now then,’ he continued, hoisting the Uzi over his shoulder by its sling, ‘let’s stop clowning about and get some work done. You’re a witch, right?’
‘Nothin’ wrong with that,’ grumbled the crone. ‘Used to be a decent living in these parts before—’
Fang looked at her closely. ‘Before what?’
The witch thought for a moment, then shrugged her coat-hanger shoulders. ‘Search me,’ she said. ‘You get to my age, you forgets things.’
Fang frowned; there was something tapping at the inside of an eggshell inside his mind, but he couldn’t locate it. He let it go. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you’re a witch. You can do turning people into things?’
Another bony shrug. ‘Sure,’ the witch replied. ‘For a moment there, I thought you was goin’ to ask for something difficult.’
‘Big bad wolves?’
‘Easy as pissin’ in a pot,’ the old lady replied. ‘You ready?’
‘When you are.’
The witch nodded. ‘All done,’ she said. ‘There. Told you there wasn’t nothin’ to it.’
Fang looked down at his feet, then along his arms, then at his tummy. ‘I’m waiting,’ he said. ‘When are you going to—?’
‘Woof.’
He spun like a top. There beside him, glaring up at him with baleful red eyes, was the biggest, darkest, most sinister-looking wolf he’d ever seen in all his life. At the same moment, he realised that the elf was no longer perched on his wrist.
‘Oh,’ said the crone. ‘You meant turn you into a—’
‘Here’s the deal,’ growled Fang, as he jerked his head towards the parapet. ‘You turn her back into an elf and me back into a wolf, and in return I postpone your flying lesson. All right?’
‘All right,’ the witch grumbled. ‘I’ll do the elf first, they’re easier. You,’ she snarled, pointing a long and disgusting fingernail, ‘quit being a wolf. See?’ she added, as the wolf was suddenly sucked back into a tiny elf-shaped packet, like fifty cubic feet of grey jelly being squidged out through a broken window in a pressurised airliner cabin. ‘No sweat. You’ll be that bit harder, of course, but— Just a minute.’ The old lady was staring at him closely. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You’re him, aintcher? You’re the big bad wolf, I’d know them nasty little eyes anywhere. What you doin’ dressed as a handsome prince anyhow?’
Fang sighed. ‘Believe me, I wish I knew. But what’s that got to do with—?’
The witch took a step backwards. ‘See you in hell first,’ she hissed, reaching up for her black pointy hat and pulling out a four-inch hatpin. ‘I ain’t doin’ no deals with no Wolfpack finks.’ She swept off the hat; and from under it cascaded an enormously long braid of hair, all the colour of ripe corn (except that the roots needed doing) ‘So long, copper,’ she hissed, as she quickly looped the end of the braid round a free-standing gargoyle and secured it in an elegant timber-hitch. ‘I may be a wicked witch, but I ain’t that wicked.’
Before Fang could do anything about it, she’d hopped up on to the parapet, both hands full of the braid. He tried to make a grab at her but missed; so instead he caught hold of the braid and began hauling on it to pull her back. Too late; the fine-textured rope slipped through his hands, burning them painfully, and just as he’d managed to get a more secure grip and was about to try again, he heard from below the sharp metallic sound of a pair of scissors closing. When he tugged on the rope, it came up at him like a jumping salmon, with nothing on the end except a black velvet toggle and some dandruff.
Chapter 6
In her more morbid moments, Sis had occasionally speculated about what death would be like, and had managed to come up with some fairly revolting scenarios; but nothing she’d managed to dream up was nearly as depressing as what was (apparently) the truth, namely that death is just like life, only more so. She wasn’t happy with the discovery. Apart from being a horrendous nightmare, it was a rotten swizzle, presumably part of some cheese-paring economy drive. Hopelessly short-sighted and doomed to failure, she couldn’t help feeling. Care and rehabilitation in the community might work for some kinds of physical handicap and mental illness, but expecting it to sort out death was going a bit far.
‘Eeeek!’ she therefore said; and also, ‘Yuk!’ Then she opened her eyes again.
The view was more or less identical to the last thing she’d seen before what she’d taken to be her last moment on Earth; a messy, debris-strewn crater where the Three Bears’ Cottage had been before it got blown up, with herself and the wicked queen in it. No past life flashing in front of her eyes, no long dark tunnel with a bright light at the end, absolutely zip special effects; and here it all was again, the only apparent difference being the camera angle (she was looking down on it, though apparently from no great height) and a feeling of giddy dizziness which she sincerely hoped wasn’t permanent.
‘There you are,’ said a voice below her.
‘I hate this,’ Sis replied without looking down. ‘I want a transfer. Either send me somewhere nicer or let me go back. And,’ she added, remembering a tactic that always seemed to work for her mother, ‘I demand to speak to the manager, at once.’
‘What are you talking about?’
It was then that she realised that the voice was familiar. ‘They got you too, then,’ she said gloomily. ‘No offence, but I really hope that doesn’t mean we’re going to be stuck here together for ever and ever. I mean, I’m sure you feel the same way too, so if we both file a formal complaint to whoever’s in charge here…’
‘Oh do be quiet,’ sighed the wicked queen, ‘you’re starting to get on my nerves. And get down out of that ridiculous tree. I’m getting a crick in my neck just looking at you.’
Carefully Sis played back the last few sentences of the conversation, finally reaching the conclusion that the most important word in them, quite possibly the most significant word she’d ever heard in her life so far, was ‘tree’. Then she looked up.
‘I’m not dead, am I?’ she said.
‘Not unless they’ve changed the entrance requirements since I last read the prospectus,’ replied the wicked queen. ‘While you’re up there, see if you can’t spot a left-foot bright red court shoe with a small brass buckle and a two-inch heel. It’s got to be around here somewhere, unless of course it was totally vaporised in the explosion.’
As soon as the news had seeped through the insulating layer of shock and befuddlement that seemed to be wrapped round her brain, Sis yipped with joy. ‘We survived the blast,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that amazing? I was absolutely sure I was dead.’
‘Another thing you’ve got wrong, then,’ the queen said, resignedly taking off her one remaining shoe. ‘When finally you do die, be sure to bequeath your collection of bloody silly mistakes to the nation. It’d be a shame if they all got split up and sold off separately.’
‘How do I get down from this tree?’
The queen snorted in exasperation. ‘For the last time,’ she said, ‘I am not a set of encyclopaedias. How should I know? Try wriggling around and leaving the rest to gravity.’
‘I can’t do that. I’ll fall and hurt myself.’
‘And what a tragedy that would be, to be sure. Look, if it’s any help, you appear to be hanging from a branch by the belt of your pinafore. Now you’re in full possession of the relevant data, surely the rest of it ought to be easy.’
Sis didn’t seem to think much of that; she waved her arms, realised that that wasn’t a sensible thing to do and started yelling ‘Help!’ very loudly. The wicked queen was about to throw the other shoe at her when a thought tiptoed across her mind, leaving in its wake a big smile.
‘Something’s just occurred to me,’ she said. ‘Do you like it up that tree?’
‘What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly.’