Wishhobbler [Paperback]

This is a dark fairy tale of a young girl struggling to cope with a home background of poverty and monsters. Complete with over twenty of the author's highly detailed illustrations, it tells the story of ten year old Spin. Abandoned by her mother at an early age, Spin has been adopted by Sir Fistache mal Arthreign. The knight's habit of collecting waifs and strays has thrown together a family of rowdy headbangers. Expelled from countless towns and villages, they hope to make a fresh start in the Songwynd slums. But the decision to bring along their pet wishhobbler destroys any chance of this.

From now on Spin's days begin with a headlong flight into horsemuck, closely followed by encounters with breakfast thieving rats; vicious, swooping blankets; thugs, bullies and mathematically gifted infants; vanishing televisions; jam jars; pickled snouts; collapsing shelves; a bizarre illness; falls from great heights; a would-be piano teacher; dawn raids; a haunted stomach; two slightly distorted violins; a new addition to the family; tea that glows in the dark; a hypnotised Labrador; the Viking, the Polar Bear, the Walrus, the Snapjazzer Cake and the Bathtub Racer; an astounding revelation; and the resolution of a centuries old confrontation.

An outsider wherever she goes, Spin longs for something to be a part of. Forced into work to feed and clothe her adoptive family, she finds a way of using her new job to enter the carefully guarded world of the Television Racers. Not the first mistake she's ever made, but it could well be the last ...

Somewhere in the damp, twisting alleyways of the Songwynd slums there lives a hideous freak of nature.

Driven by poverty, Spin and her family move to the Songwynds in search of work. There they share a tiny, rat-infested flat with a wishhobbler.

An enormous toffee and custard guzzling fleabag, the wishhobbler's viciousness has caused fear and mayhem among the slum dwellers. Unable to hit back at the wishhobbler, her victims instead pick on Spin and her family. Friendless, haunted by thugs and bullies, and struggling to cope with a bizarre illness, Spin isn't having much fun.

When the wishhobbler disrupts the carefully laid plans of the mysterious Television Racers, Spin finds herself at the centre of a deadly confrontation.

And then things take a turn for the worst ...

Other families have a mother. We had a pet wishhobbler that liked to stretch out in front of the fire. She would quite happily lie there all day. Providing Da took her a good long run at night, that is. She loved running. And she could be a bit of a crazy berth if she didn't get out at night: vicious and bad tempered. She terrified the neighbours and curdled the milk; shattered furniture and punched cavernous holes in walls.

Standing on all fours, her solid square forehead was level with mine. Each of the four paws was as wide as my waist. She had to strain to get her huge body through the door.

There wasn't a leash in the world could hold her.

The wishhobbler was a souvenir from Da's time fighting for the king. She had been badly injured in some sort of accident; her Collision, Da called it. He rescued her and brought her home. We called her Ma, which Da said was short for Malcontent Headbanger (because she was never happy or content). Da wasn't any good at thinking up names. He called me Spinworthie Turec after a horse in some book. Spinworthie Turec mal Arthreign. What sort of name was that for a girl? I cut it down to Spin.

Ma. It's embarrassing to admit to you, but when I was smaller I did actually think she was our mother. See, Da had taught her to string a few sentences together. And he covered most of her rusty fur with a long dress and hat to make her seem less strange. People would ask, 'How's your Ma this weather?' And I'd say, 'Oh, she's fine; still baying at the moon.'

Living with Ma was never easy, but I won't forget the weekend of the Wearypenn Race. The Race is very important where I come from. People don't take kindly to wishhobblers deciding they're going to win it. For the Race is not what you would expect. And the Racers, as we discovered, are not the kind of people it is wise to upset.

It started on the day before the Race. I remember being sick early Saturday morning. At the time I thought it was nothing more than an upset stomach. Da was there in an instant; giving me a hug and cleaning it up. Ma didn't stir. But as soon as half five came, she was wide awake and roaring at me to get up. She hadn't had a run for nearly a week and her mood was foul.

I swayed slightly on the cold floorboards; my eyes stinging and brain buzzing. Until recently I'd had no idea what half five even looked like. It's kind of ugly with spots. Behind me, my sisters and brothers stirred in their sleep; filling out the space I'd left in the bed. Their quiet breathing pointed out that life wasn't meant to be lived at this hour. I knew it; I didn't argue. The warmth of the blankets drew me back down. Just a moment on the pillow; no need to sleep. A sweet moment with my eyes closed and everything would be all right.

With a sudden sharp pain in the back of my neck I was flying towards the ceiling. 'Said you wake.' One warm wishhobbler paw held me by my nightshirt. 'Wake.'

'I am a-w-w-w' - my teeth rattled together as Ma shook me wildly - 'a-w-w-w-ake.'

The shaking stopped abruptly. Her fat eyebrows lowered heavily in confusion. She swung me closer until we were eye to dark, bloodshot eye. Her hot breath flowed over me. 'What's wiwiwiwake? It's rude?'

'No,' I gasped. I was still dangling some way off the ground. My night-shirt collar was digging hard into my throat.

'What? Can't hear. Sleeping?' The folds of fat on her cheeks and chins wobbled madly as she spoke, upsetting the fleas that lived in her fur. Her grip tightened, catching my hair and pulling my head back. Her thick claws dug into my neck. 'I you wake.' She hobbled to the window on her other three paws. She nudged it open with her snout and threw me out into the cold morning air. 'Wake wake.'

Sadly, we live on the fourth floor.