The door had no lock, but Jack reasoned that the bird was not capable of turning the handle. As he backed away, breathless, he cursed his confidence. The opposition had more up its sleeve than he’d guessed.
Amanda was leaning against the wall sobbing, her face stained with splotches of turkey grease. All she seemed able to do was deny what she’d seen, shaking her head and repeating the word ‘no’ like a talisman against the ridiculous horror that was still throwing itself against the door. Jack escorted her through to the lounge. The radio was still crooning carols which blotted out the din of the bird, but their promises of goodwill seemed small comfort.
Gina poured a hefty brandy for her sister and sat beside her on the sofa, plying her with spirits and reassurance in about equal measure. They made little impression on Amanda.
‘What was that?’ Gina asked her father, in a tone that demanded an answer.
‘I don’t know what it was,’ Jack replied.
‘Mass hysteria?’ Gina’s displeasure was plain. Her father had a secret: he knew what was going on in the house, but he was refusing to cough up for some reason.
‘What do I call: the police or an exorcist?’
‘Neither.’
‘For God’s sake —‘
‘There’s nothing going on, Gina. Really.’
Her father turned from the window and looked at her. His eyes spoke what his mouth refused to say, that this was war.
Jack was afraid.
The house was suddenly a prison. The game was suddenly lethal. The enemy, instead of playing foolish games, meant harm, real harm to them all.
In the kitchen the turkey had at last conceded defeat. The carols on the radio had withered into a sermon on God’s benedictions.
What had been sweet was sour and dangerous. He looked across the room at Amanda and Gina. Both for their own reasons, were trembling. Polo wanted to tell them, wanted to explain what was going on. But the thing must be there, he knew, gloating.
He was wrong. The Yattering had retired to the attic, well-satisfied with its endeavours. The bird, it felt, had been a stroke of genius. Now it could rest a while:
recuperate. Let the enemy’s nerves tatter themselves in anticipation. Then, in its own good time, it would deliver the coup de grace.
Idly, it wondered if any of the inspectors had seen his work with the turkey. Maybe they would be impressed enough by the Yattering’s originality to improve its job prospects. Surely it hadn’t gone through all those years of training simply to chase half-witted imbeciles like Polo. There must be something more challenging available than
that. It felt victory in its invisible bones: and it was a good feeling.
The pursuit of Polo would surely gain momentum now. His daughters would convince him (if he wasn’t now quite convinced) that there was something terrible afoot. He would crack. He would crumble. Maybe he’d go classically mad: tear out his hair, rip off his clothes; smear himself with his own excrement.
Oh yes, victory was close. And wouldn’t his masters be loving then? Wouldn’t it be showered with praise, and power?
One more manifestation was all that was required. One final, inspired intervention, and Polo would be so much blubbering flesh.
Tired, but confident, the Yattering descended into the lounge.
Amanda was lying full-length on the sofa, asleep. She was obviously dreaming about the turkey. Her eyes rolled beneath her gossamer lids, her lower lip trembled. Gina sat beside the radio, which was silenced now. She had a book open on her lap, but she wasn’t reading it.
The gherkin importer wasn’t in the room. Wasn’t that his footstep on the stair? Yes, he was going upstairs to relieve his brandy-full bladder.
Ideal timing.
The Yattering crossed the room. In her sleep Amanda dreamt something dark flitting across her vision, something malign, something that tasted bitter in her mouth.
Gina looked up from her book.
The silver balls on the tree were rocking, gently. Not just the balls. The tinsel and the branches too.
In fact, the tree. The whole tree was rocking as though someone had just seized hold of it.
Gina had a very bad feeling about this. She stood up. The book slid to the floor.