Trolls on Hols (8 page)

He followed a rough, muddy path and eventually came to a wide clearing overgrown with ferns. Looking around, he half expected to see Ulrik's large hairy head or his bottom poking out from behind one of the trees. There was no sign of him. Warren went on, swishing at the tops of the ferns with his stick.
Swish!
Ogwen had warned them to stay out of the woods, he recalled. There wasn't anything to worry about, of course – the beast only came out after dark.
Swish, swish!
Though you could never be certain. It might be here watching him right now.

He halted and glanced around nervously. Maybe if he hadn't stopped he wouldn't have noticed the odd way the ferns lay on the ground ahead of him – as if someone had arranged them deliberately. He prodded one aside with his stick. Underneath was a piece of chicken wire and beneath that a dark, yawning hole. Warren squatted down to examine it more closely. It was some kind of animal trap and if he'd taken a couple more steps he would have fallen right into it! But why would
someone dig a hole in the middle of the woods? It was far too big for catching rabbits and he hadn't come across any other wild animals.

The words in yesterday's paper jumped into his mind – ‘£500 reward for catching the beast'. So that was it! – someone was after the reward! Warren almost wished he'd thought of the idea himself. Five hundred pounds was a lot of pocket money – think of all the sweets and ice creams he could buy with that! He pictured his photo on the front page of tomorrow's paper and his name in the headlines. ‘Warren the beast-slayer' they'd call him.

Of course it was only a daydream. He was never going to catch the beast or get his hands on the reward … unless … A sly smile spread across Warren's face. Nobody actually knew what the beast looked like, did they?

Carefully, he replaced the ferns so that the hole was hidden from sight. Once he was satisfied, he stood up and raised his hands to his mouth.

‘ULRIK! Ulrik, over here!'

Ulrik meanwhile was getting tired of hiding. He'd
been crouching in the middle of a prickly bush for what felt like hours. One of his feet had gone to sleep. Maybe Warren had given up looking for him altogether. Maybe he was too scared to come into the woods. He pricked up his ears. Someone was shouting his name.

He followed the voice until he came to a wide clearing, where he found Warren waiting for him.

‘Why didn't you come to find me?' he asked.

Warren shrugged. ‘I've been looking. You're too good at hiding.'

Ulrik looked pleased. ‘Really? Does that mean I winned the game?'

‘Yep, you won. Come on, let's go back now.' Warren sounded impatient.

‘But isn't it your turn to hide?' asked Ulrik.

Warren glanced down. One more step. ‘What?' he said.

‘I said, “Isn't it your turn?”'

‘No! The game's over. Hurry up!'

‘Oh. I thought …' But Ulrik never got to say what he thought because he took another step towards Warren and suddenly the ground gave way beneath his feet. He fell into the trap, with
branches and ferns crashing down on top of him.

For a moment he lay still, more dazed than hurt.

‘What happened?' he groaned.

Warren peered down at him. ‘Looks like you fell in a hole.'

Ulrik scrambled to his feet. He'd bruised his knee. The hole was so deep that even standing on tiptoe he couldn't reach the top. He stretched up a hand to Warren.

‘Help me out!'

Warren shook his head. ‘I can't.'

‘Warren!'

‘Sorry, you're too heavy. You weigh a ton. If I try to pull you out I'll probably end up falling in with you. Then we'll both be stuck.'

Ulrik blinked up at him. It was true, he was bigger and heavier than Warren.

‘What are we going to do?' he asked anxiously.

‘Don't worry, you stay there. I'll go and fetch help.'

‘Wait!' called Ulrik. ‘You're not going to leave me all by myself?'

‘It won't be for long. I'll run back to the caravan
and tell them what's happened. Five minutes and I'll be back again.'

‘You promise?'

‘Scout's honour,' said Warren, raising a hand in salute. He gave Ulrik a cheery wave and walked away, smiling secretly to himself. Of course he had never been in the Scouts, but Ulrik didn't know that.

Back at the farm, Mr Priddle was doing his best to clean out the waterlogged caravan.

He squeezed muddy brown water from his mop into a bucket. His wife and son were refusing to help – Mrs Priddle said they were on strike. She looked up from the novel she was reading and shook her head.

‘I don't know why you're wasting time on that, Roger.'

‘The floor's almost dry,' said her husband.

‘I've told you, I'm not sleeping in there.'

‘You'll get used to the smell after a while.'

‘I don't want to get used to it. I want to move to a nice hotel.'

Warren stopped juggling with his football. ‘Will the hotel have a swimming pool?' he asked.

‘Of course it will, my poppet,' said Mrs Priddle.

Mr Priddle thumped his mop on the floor. ‘We're not going to any hotel, we're staying here! I've paid Ogwen for two weeks!'

‘Fine. You stay in your smelly old caravan if you like, Roger; we're not,' said Mrs Priddle, placidly turning her page.

Mr Priddle emptied a bucketful of brown water into the grass.

‘The sun's shining, you're out in the fresh air, what more do you want?'

Mrs Priddle gave him a withering look. ‘Dry clothes,' she said.

‘Can I have cooked breakfast at the hotel?' asked Warren.

‘Have what you like, darling, your father's paying,' said Mrs Priddle.

‘Will the Trolls be coming too?'

‘No,' said Mrs Priddle firmly. ‘They're having their own holiday.'

‘Where?' asked Warren.

‘I've no idea. That's up to them.'

Warren glanced anxiously back at the woods. It was hours since he'd left Ulrik and set off towards town with the intention of claiming the £500 reward. But the closer he got to the village, the more he'd begun to lose faith in his plan. For one thing, he wasn't exactly sure where the police station was. For another, he doubted the police would believe a word of his story. Hairy and ugly he might be, but Ulrik didn't sound much like a savage beast once he opened his mouth. He was far too gentle and good-natured. Even worse, Warren thought, what if Mr and Mrs Troll discovered that he'd tried to swap their son for £500? Warren had seen Mr Troll in a temper and he didn't wish to be picked up and swung round by his ears. No, he'd decided in the end, it would never work. Far safer to go back and just keep quiet.

When he returned to the caravan his parents were too busy arguing to even notice that Ulrik was missing. All the same, Warren was starting to
feel uneasy. What if Ulrik never got out of the hole? What if he stayed there for ever and starved to death? Come to think of it, Warren was pretty hungry himself. Wasn't it time for supper?

His dad carried a bundle of soggy sheets from the caravan and began to peg them on a washing line.

‘I wonder where they are,' he pondered.

‘Who?' asked his wife.

‘The Trolls. They've been gone hours. You think they're all right?'

‘All right?' snorted Mrs Priddle. ‘They're trolls, Roger, not children!'

‘Yes,' said Mr Priddle. ‘That's what worries me.'

Mr and Mrs Troll's search for somewhere to stay was not going well. As soon as the villagers saw them coming down the hill they scurried into their houses and locked their doors. Mrs Troll spotted a sign in the window of a tall white house offering ‘Bed and Breakfast', but when she knocked on the door a hand appeared and turned the sign around so that it said ‘No Vacancies'.

‘Now what?' she asked her husband.

Mr Troll pointed down the hill to a van parked by a playground.

‘Look! There's a caravan just like the Piddles'.'

When they got closer they found the caravan was empty. It was bright pink, and for reasons Mr Troll didn't fully grasp it had a giant ice-cream cornet parked on the roof. People's strange ideas never ceased to amaze him. He peered in through the window. ‘It's a bit tiddly,' he said, ‘but we could all squish up on the floor.'

‘I don't know, Eggy,' said Mrs Troll doubtfully. ‘Doesn't it belong to someone? Maybe we should ask.'

Mr Troll looked up and down the deserted village street. ‘Who can we ask? Come on, they won't mind if we take a look. Give me a legs-up.'

Mrs Troll panted and pushed him from behind while her husband struggled to squeeze his bulky frame through the narrow window.

‘Push harder!' said Mr Troll. ‘My bottoms are stuck!'

‘I am pushing harder! You've put on weight!'

‘One more shove!'

Mrs Troll summoned all her strength and gave one
last shove. It did the trick and Mr Troll fell head-first into the van, grabbing at a lever to try and break his fall. A large blob of ice cream oozed from a nozzle. It hung for a moment and then landed neatly on top of his head. He scrambled to his feet.

Mrs Troll stared at him. ‘A bird's plopped on your head.'

Mr Troll dabbed at the blob with a finger and tasted it. ‘That's not bird-plop, it's nice cream,' he said. ‘Ulrik will love this – a caravan with its own nice cream.'

He set about heaving his wife in through the window and the two of them inspected their new lodgings.

‘It's much tiddlier than the Piddles',' said Mrs Troll. ‘Where's the folding bed?'

She opened a door. A blast of cold air hit her in the face and mist billowed out. ‘It's full of lollies,' she said.

‘'Scuse me!'

A shrill voice brought Mr Troll to the window. A small, curly-haired girl was staring up at him, holding out a coin.

‘A Ninety-nine, please, mister,' she said.

‘Pardon?' replied Mr Troll.

‘A Ninety-nine. With a chocolate flake.'

Mr Troll turned to his wife. ‘She wants ninety-nine chocolate cakes.'

‘We haven't got any cakes.'

‘I know. Maybe she'll take a nice cream instead.'

‘Wait there,' he told the little girl. He examined
the ice-cream machine and pulled down the lever. A large blob of whipped vanilla plopped on to the floor between his feet. Mr Troll tried again and managed to catch the next blob on his right foot. He looked around for a bowl or plate but there didn't seem to be any. Instead he raised his foot and propped it carefully on the counter. ‘There we are. One nice cream,' he said. ‘You'll have to lick it off.' The little girl frowned back at him.

Just then a voice made them look up. A man was running down the hill towards them at high speed, his white coat flapping behind him.

‘Hoi!' he shouted crossly. ‘What do you think you're doing?'