He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.
Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips.‘Oh, come on,’ she said,
‘No-one can ) ) 9ny- ) )on day )
) sharpen ) ) thing)
She paused.
He waved the blade again.
‘Go / )ief.’
) od gr)
Down in the yard. Cyril stretched his bald neck for another 90~ Bill Door grinned, and sivung the blade towards the sound.
‘Sudl )oodle-riod!’
)-a~n)
Then he lowered the blade.
THAT’S SHARP.
His grin faded, or at least faded as much as it was able to.
Miss Flitworth turned, following the line of his gaze until it intersected a ?kint? haze over the cornfields.
It looked like a pale grey robe, empty but still somehow maintaining the shape of its wearer, as if a garment on a washing line was catching the breeze.
It wavered for a moment, and then vanished.
‘I saw it,’ said Miss Flitworth.
THAT WASN’T IT. THAT WAS THEM.
‘Them who?’
THEY’RE LIKE – Bill Door waved a hand vaguely – SERVANTS. WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.
Miss Flitworth’s eyes narrowed.
‘Inspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?’ she said.
I SUPPOSE SO—
Miss Flitworth’s face lit up.
‘Why didn’t you say?’
I’M SORRY?
‘My father always made me promise never to help the Revenoo. Even just thinking about the Revenoo, he said, made him want to go and have a lie down. He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse, because at least death didn’t happen to you every year. We had to
go out of the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what you’ve got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone.’
She sniffed.
Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word “revenue”, which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word “scum”.
‘You should have said that they were after you right from the start.’ said Miss Flitworth.‘The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know. In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ‘em into the pond.’
BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.
‘Yeah, but it was fun watching ‘em find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.’
NO. NOT TAXES.
‘Well, well. I didn’t know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.’
YES. IN A WAY.
She sidled closer.
‘When will he come?’
TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.
‘I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.’
IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.
‘Are you’re sure about tonight?’
YES.
‘And that blade will work, will it?’
I DON’T KNOW. IT’S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.
‘Oh.’ She seemed to be considering something.‘So you’ve got the rest of the day free, then?’
YES?
‘Then you can start getting the harvest in.’
WHAT?
It’ll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I’m paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.’
Mrs Cake’s house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.
After a while a muffled voice called out, ‘Is there anybody there?’
‘Knock once for yes,’ Schleppel volunteered.
Windle levered open the letter-box.
‘Excuse me? Mrs Cake?’
The door opened.
Mrs Cake wasn’t what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom.
And she had magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He looked down.
Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.
‘I don’t think you could be Mrs Cake,’ said Windle.
‘You want mother,’ said the tall girl. ‘Mother! There’s a gentleman!’
A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs Cake appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from planetary shadow.
‘What d’yew want?’ said Mrs Cake.
Windle took a step backwards. Unlike her daughter, Mrs Cake was quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter, whose whole
stance was dedicated to making herself look small, she loomed tremendously. This was largely because of her hat, which he later learned she wore at all times with the dedication of a wizard. It was huge and black and had things on it, like bird wings and wax cherries and hatpins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a continent. Mrs Cake travelled underneath it as the basket travels under a balloon.
People often found themselves talking to her hat.
‘Mrs Cake?’ said Windle, fascinated.
‘Oim down ‘ere,’ said a reproachful voice.
Windle lowered his gaze.
‘That’s ‘oo I am, ‘ said Mrs Cake.
‘Am I addressing Mrs Cake?’ said Windle.
‘Yes, oi, know,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘My name’s Windle Poons.’
‘Oi knew that, too.’
‘I’m a wizard, yoysee -‘
‘All right, but see you wipes your feet.’
‘May I come in?’
Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.
‘That’s right, ‘ said Mrs Cake.
‘Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?’
‘About ten seconds usually, Mr Poons.’
Windle hesitated.
‘You gotta ask the question,’ said Mrs Cake quickly.
‘I gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I’ve already foreseen ‘em and answered ‘em.’
‘How far into the future can you see, Mrs Cake?’
She nodded.
‘Roight, then,’ she said, apparently mollified, and led the way through the hall into a tiny sitting-room.
‘And the bogey can come in, only he’s got to leave ‘is door outside and go in the cellar. I don’t hold with bogeys wanderin’ around the house.’
‘Gosh, it’s ages since I’ve been in a proper cellar,’ said Schleppel.
‘It’s got spiders in it,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘Wow!’
‘And you’d like a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Cake to Windle. Someone else might have said ‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea’, or ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ But this was a statement.
‘Yes, please, ‘ said Windle. ‘I ‘d love a cup of tea.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Cake.‘That stuff rots your teeth.’
Windle worked this one out.
‘Two sugars, please,’ he said.
‘ It’s all right.’
‘This is a nice place you have here, Mrs Cake,’ said Windle, his mind racing. Mrs Cake’s habit of answering questions while they were still forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.
‘He’s been dead for ten years,’ she said.
‘Er,’ said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, ‘I trust Mr Cake is in good health?’
‘It’s OK. Oi speaks to him occasional,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Windle.
‘All right, if it makes you feel any better.’
‘Um, Mrs Cake? I’m finding it a little confusing. Could you … switch off … your precognition … ?’
She nodded.
‘Sorry. Oi gets into the habit of leavin’ it on,’ she said, ‘what with there only bein’ me an’ Ludmilla and One-Man-Bucket. He’s a ghost,’ she added.‘Oi knew you was goin’ to ask that.’
‘Yes, I had heard that mediums have native spirit guides,’ said Windle.
‘ ‘Im ‘E ‘s not a guide, ‘e’s a sort of odd-job ghost,’ said Mrs Cake.‘I don’t hold with all that stuff with cards and trumpets and Oo-jar boards, mind you. An’ I think ectoplasm’s disgustin’. Oi won’t have it in the
‘ouse. Oi won’t. You can’t get it out of the carpets, you know. Not even with vinegar.’
‘My word, ‘ said Windle Poons.
‘Or wailin’. I don’t hold with it. Or messin’ around with the supernatural. It’s unnatural, the supernatural. I won’t have it.’
‘Um,’ said Windle cautiously.‘There are those who might think that being a medium is a bit … you know … supernatural?’
‘What? What? Nothing supernatural about dead people. Load of nonsense. Everyone dies sooner or later.’
‘I do hope so, Mrs Cake.’
‘So what is it you’d be wanting, Mr Poons? I’m not precognitin’, so you have to tell me.’
‘I want to know what’s happening, Mrs Cake.’
There was a muted thump from under their feet and the faint, happy sound of Schleppel.
‘Oh, wow! Rats, too!’
‘I went up and tried to tell you wizards,’ said Mrs Cake, primly.‘An’ no-one listened. I knew they weren’t going to, but I ‘ad to try, otherwise I wouldn’t ‘ave known.’