Читать книгу Danny Yates Must Die - Stephen Walker - Страница 14

‘He’s gone?’

‘I said he would.’ Having watched Lucy’s taxi drive off up the road, Annette Helstrang let the cobweb pattern net curtain fall closed and she told the boiler-suited legs protruding from beneath her bed, ‘There was no way he was going to move in. He’s not the type.’

The legs protested, ‘But this can’t happen.’

‘You think not? If there’s a wrong decision, bet on him to make it.’

‘But it’s his fate to move in here.’

‘So?’ she asked.

‘If even one person refuses to follow his fate, it sets in motion a chain of events that may destroy us all.’

‘I fail to see what Danny Yates could do that could destroy us all.’

‘We must make alternative arrangements immediately.’

‘You want me to kidnap him?’

‘Would you like to do that, Annette Helstrang? Would you like to tie him to that chair by the door, and for several weeks feed him a diet of bread, water and bromide to keep his lusts to a minimum?’

‘No, I wouldn’t. Lucy might. But she might torture him.’

‘We might still be able to cut him off at the pass.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You must get a pedicure.’

Perched on the bed. Ribbons Melancholia gazed down at the legs, suspicious. He swiped at them with his ginger paw, missed, and lost balance. He hit the carpet with a disdainful miaow, shook himself down, tried to look dignified, failed to look dignified, then jumped back onto the bed. He circled three times before resuming his legwatch.

‘Wheatley is full of bad feet,’ said the legs. ‘Only two people in this town have ones of the necessary quality, and, being a slightly tall girl, the other would be unsuitable.’

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Annette.

‘You shall see.’

‘But how can a pedicure save us all?’

‘How many over the aeons have asked us that? Always it comes down to feet.’

‘Then I’ll go and get them seen to.’ She didn’t know what was going on. Since first appearing, the legs had talked in nothing but riddles. Where were they from? Who did they work for? They wouldn’t say. But clearly, they worked for a higher power. Magic’s twelfth rule was that only the very highest powers could leave disembodied legs beneath your bed.

Grabbing her blackest coat, adopting her most earnest face, she headed for the door. ‘C’mon, Ribbons. We’re going.’

‘Wait,’ said the legs.

She stopped at the door, held the handle and looked to the bed.

‘You may not go yet. And there is one particular pedicurist you must visit.’

‘There is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Reasons.’

‘What reasons?’

‘Reasons reasons.’

‘So,’ she sighed, ‘who is this pedicurist?’

‘Watch the wall.’ She did.

And across the far wall, blood red letters began to appear forming the words:

MADAM FIFI’S LATE NIGHT PEDICURES