Danny Yates Must Die

‘Are you winding me up?’

In fading light, she clambered onto the fridge, sat cross legged atop it, and looked down at him. ‘Within two weeks, this battered frigidaire,’ clungk, her knuckles rapped it, ‘may be the world’s first functional time machine. Weird Science, I hold several doctorates in it.’

He gazed up into deep green eyes, trying to imagine them travelling through time atop that fridge. But somehow, no matter how hard he tried – and he tried hard – he could only imagine her naked in a field of strangely phallic toadstools.

‘You were sat outside the Seaman’s Mission?’ she asked.

‘I’m staying there, between homes.’

‘Are you a seaman?’

‘I’d rather not go into that.’

She went quiet, thinking, finally deciding, ‘I suppose you could stay at my place.’

‘You mean it?’

‘I could do with the company. Since arriving in this town, I seem to have spent all my time talking to the walls. Plus, I’d like to further research the problem of you being unable to imagine me naked.’

He scrambled to his feet, pulse quickening at the prospect of moving in with her. ‘I can imagine you naked,’ he insisted, hoping to impress her with his etiquette. ‘I just choose not to.’

‘Even odder.’

‘What’s the rent?’ he asked, like it mattered.

‘No rent.’

‘Bond?’

‘No bond.’

‘References?’

‘No references.’

‘Demons?’

‘Demons?’ she asked.

‘Are there any head-sucking demons?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed. Do you want me to get you some?’

‘No chance.’ And not altogether successfully, he fought back the urge to laugh like an idiot. ‘Are there any catches at all?’

‘None. Just a place to live and the pleasure of my company. So, how about it?’

eleven (#ulink_c75f5490-0136-58b8-ad7f-ac5cd2619142)

Clack. First thing next morning, something dropped through Lucy Smith’s letter box and hit the mat. Yawning, straight from bed, she shambled from her room and collected the buff, windowed envelope.

She checked the back; no sender’s address. Curious, she tore the bitter envelope open with her teeth then pulled out the crisp, white paper.

Discarding envelope on floor, she unfolded the note. It read:

Mz Lucille Smuth,

77, Osmosis Tenements,

Dead End Street,

Wheatley 2

(April 15)

Drear Mz Smuth;

Please make an appointment to see me at the erliest oppurtunity, to discuss staff and student complaints that you have an altitude problem.

Yours

Gerald Soldacre,

Principal, Wheatley Pollytecnick.

Lucy frowned. Meanwhile the phone began to ring. She went to answer it.

Altitude problems?

twelve (#ulink_6341a1bc-1a3f-5ad8-afc4-61291397de2b)

Danny arrived, first thing that morning, stopping only to collect his jaw from the pavement.

Teena Rama’s own personal White House ran some three hundred feet from one end of Moldern Crescent to the other, half enclosing the houses across the road, as though trying to eat them. From somewhere behind the building, a white pole prodded the sky, its polka dot flag declaring the owner to be in residence.

He checked the address she’d given him and, having reassured himself for the fiftieth time that this must be the place, climbed the step that connected it to the street.

Staring at the oak panelled front door, he again checked the address. It was still the right place. About to knock, he noticed a tiny sign beside the handle; please press me. An arrow pointed to a green plastic panel by the door. He did as instructed. The panel lit up.

‘Hello?’ asked a voice that seemed to be Bob Holness.

Danny looked around, trying to locate its source.

Above the door, a camera’s red light activated. He addressed it. ‘Er, good morning. I believe I’m expected.’

‘Expected?’

‘By Teena Rama. I’m her new lodger.’