Pure Dead Magic by Debi Gliori Page A

notes.”
    “I haven’t any pockets, pal,” said the rabbit, stating the obvious.
    Mutters from the rear of the van told Pronto that, like him, everyone was carrying either credit cards or rolls of big notes.
    “Couldn’t we just drive straight through the barrier?” said the rabbit hopefully.
    “No, we could
not,
” growled Pronto. “We are trying not to draw any attention to ourselves. Here we are on a clandestine mission to some Highland fortress, intent on rubbing out a boy and anyone else that sees us do it. If we crash through the barrier, chances are we’ll arrive at our destination with a police escort.”
    The van rolled to a halt in front of the toll barrier. Pronto wound down his window and extended his arm with a £100 note at the end of it.
    “Haven’t you got anything smaller?” the toll collector asked in disgust, “I haven’t got change for
that.
”
    “Tell him to keep the change,” said the rabbit. “And hurry it up, will ya? I need the bog.”
    “Will you shut
up
and let me deal with this,” hissed Pronto. “He’s hardly likely to forget several men and a rabbit who told him to keep £99.20 change, is he?”
    “I can’t wait much longer,” moaned the rabbit to himself.“You’ve no idea how long it takes to get this rabbit costume undone.… I’m gonna burst.”
    A line of bridge traffic began to form behind the van. The toll collector stuck his head round the door of his booth, the better to address them. “You’ll just have to wait,” he yelled. “Daddy Warbucks here hasn’t anything smaller than a hundred-pound note, and I’ll have to get some more change.” Grumbling to himself, he strolled slowly off in the direction of the other tollbooths, holding the banknote out in front of him as if it was covered in plague bacteria.
    Minutes dragged past. By now, the rabbit was jiggling frantically on his seat, causing the entire van to bounce up and down. “Oh, oh, oh. My bladder can’t cope. I need a pee NOW—ow, ow, ow, it’s like trying to stop Niagara Falls … urrrgh … hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.”
    The toll collector was deep in conversation at a faraway booth where his ancient colleague was slowly counting out £99.20 in pennies. From time to time, they glanced leisurely over to where the van was rocking back and forth, muffled screams coming from its interior.
    To the amusement of the occupants in the long line of waiting cars, the van at the head of the line suddenly stopped bouncing and ejected one of its passengers. What was going on? The ejectee appeared to be attempting to divest himself of a large rabbit suit. He appeared to be in something of a tearing hurry. No? No. The rabbit had changed his mind.
    The rabbit was now waddling back to the van, his furry legs held apart, leaving a trail of wet rabbit footprints on the tarmac behind him.
    The toll collector shuffled back to his booth, effortfullydragging a large canvas bag in which clinked £99.20 in coins. He stuck his head into the van, recoiled abruptly, and said, “Phhwoah. What’s that
smell?
Did someone die in there while I was off getting your money?” He roared with laughter at his own wit and began to count out Pronto’s change.
    Several miles up the road, they stopped at a service station and bought four cans of air freshener. Several miles after that, they stopped at a pull-off and sprayed the rabbit. Shortly thereafter, the roads narrowed considerably. A series of s-curves and steep dips conspired to make everyone feel very queasy indeed. Everyone, that is, except the rabbit. He was quite happy; his costume had dried off nicely, he’d found an excellent heavy-metal station on the radio, and was rolling the window up and down in time to the beat.
    “OPEN THE WINDOW!” yelled the three men in the back as the van lurched and rolled around another corner.
    Several miles later, they stopped in the middle of nowhere and tied the rabbit to the roof rack.

A Wee Hot Toddy
    W ith the feeling