The Wrong Pong by Steven Butler & Chris Fisher & Steven Butler

Author:Steven Butler & Chris Fisher & Steven Butler [Fisher, Steven Butler and Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141334059
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2011-04-25T00:00:00+00:00

Meanwhile

Pong stood on Neville’s bed in a shower of white feathers. He had ripped all the pillows to shreds and eaten the pillowcases. They tasted of cotton and sleep and spit.

‘Oooooooorrrrrhhhhh,’ he said. Then he burrowed into the mountain of feathers and curled up to sleep. In the morning, he was going to peel the wallpaper off the walls of Marjorie and Herbert’s bedroom. That would be fun …

A Very Bad Headache

BAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNGGGGG! The ticker-dinger-thinger shook the house.

Neville woke up, wrapped snugly in a thick smelly blanket, lying across a pile of newspapers in the corner of the kitchen. His head felt like someone had screwed the top off, stuck in an egg- whisk and scrambled his brains. He reached up and felt a big, egg-sized bump beneath his hair.

‘Ouch,’ he said.

‘Oh, you’re back,’ came Malaria’s voice. ‘What’s your name again?’ She was sitting at the kitchen table smoking her clay pipe alongside Clod and a rather angry-looking Mrs Pilchard.

‘Neville,’ said Neville, rubbing the bump. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Oh, Neville, that’s it. Well, Neville … you stirred up quite a rumpus,’ said Malaria. ‘You’ve been asleep for three bangs and three bongs straight.’

‘Lazy lump,’ Mrs Pilchard muttered under her breath.

‘What happened?’ asked Neville.

‘Think you gave Mrs Pilchard a bit of a fright. She gave you a good clonk on the noggin,’ said Clod. ‘Ain’t that right, Gristle?’

Gristle Pilchard was clinging to a mug of nettle tea with both hands like it was a life-ring in the middle of the ocean. She looked at Neville the same way someone would look at the bearded lady at a fun-fair. It was a mixture of fascination and utter disgust.

‘Ahh yes, the gonker … There I was, minding my own business picking thistles on the hill to make some thorny-barb beer, when I hear all kinds of rambunkin’ coming from your house. I took a peek through the curtain to see what in earth was occurinatin’ and this grot jumps at me from the shadows. He attacked me.’

‘I did not!’ yelped Neville.

‘He did,’ Mrs Pilchard shouted. ‘I thought I was a goner for sure!’

Neville sat up on his elbows. He felt wobbly and a bit sick.

‘Belly, fetch your brother some stew. He looks a bit blurty if you ask me,’ said Malaria.

Rubella was sitting at the far end of the table, staring at Neville like he was a dog poo she had just trodden in.

‘Tell him to get it himself,’ she snapped angrily.

Malaria blew a long puff of purple smoke from her nostrils and scowled. ‘Do as you’re told, young lady,’ she said. ‘Nev wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d kept your beady peepers on him.’

Rubella stomped to the stove and fetched Neville a bowl of left sock stew. She plonked it down hard next to him on the floor.

‘Don’t choke,’ she whispered. ‘You lazy little bunion.’

Neville tried to be brave and stare back for as long as he could, but Rubella was too big and too frightening, so he took a sip of stew instead.

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