‘At home, I think she said. Her parents have a music shop. You probably know it. They specialise in reggae, highlife, that sort of thing.’ in Worth Road, on a comer?’
'That’s the one.’
‘Lise, could you ask her again when it’s convenient? And then ring the Public Health Department. Ask for Mary Armstrong. This is serious, you know.’
‘Even without antlers?’ she started to argue, but at that moment the bell rang and she had to hurry back into the classroom.
Guy made his escape from the school, dodging through the shoals of animated children who were pouring out into the corridors. Reaching his car, he laid the glass jar carefully on its side on the passenger seat, threw his briefcase into the back and drove slowly out of the playground.
His first stop was Worth Hall, where this time he found a woman on duty at the reception desk. Miss Armstrong was out, she told him, but she directed him to a room in the basement. There he handed over the jar to a young man in a white lab coat, who also lent him a memo pad on which he scribbled a quick note to Mary.
‘Those beetles could be highly dangerous,’ Guy warned before he left.
The young man tipped the jar sideways to examine them more closely. ‘Similar colouring,’ he observed, ‘but no antlers. Could be females.’
‘Glad I brought them in then,’ Guy answered. Bloody hell, he thought, why hadn’t he considered that? ‘Could you tell Mary I’ll call her later this afternoon in case there’s anything more.’
On leaving Worth Hall he drove directly to the office. It was shortly after eleven and with any luck he’d manage to get some of his correspondence cleared before he went out for his appointment with Rawnsley. First, however, he rang Hatchards to ask what books they had about beetles; something he should have done weeks ago.
Hazel Roberts stood outside the fishmonger’s and pondered. Nothing on offer was cheap, but then she hadn’t expected it to be, not in this West End shop, which catered mainly for top restaurants and directors’ dining rooms; even for younger royalty, she’d heard it said. The trouble was, she’d hunted ail over and this was the first place she’d found with fresh lobster and she had wanted to give Jim a treat. Since their holidays in Cornwall, lobster with mayonnaise was one of his favourites.
But it was so terribly expensive.
Even lying there on that marble slab it exuded an air of expense-account luxury, she thought; an aura of success — maybe because of those horrible claws, which looked so much more dangerous once they were boiled that bright red. Straight out of the sea — she remembered from Pol-perro harbour — they had seemed to her eyes rather pathetic.
She moved away, uncertain whether she should really spend so much money, though with Jim coming home for a late lunch she had to make up her mind quickly. His interview for the new job — branch manager at Swift’s (Everything You Need Under One Roof) — started at three-thirty and she was determined he should go there feeling he could win.
But perhaps lobster was not the right choice, not at that price. Once he actually got the job, yes. Then they’d have something to celebrate.
Not for lunch today, though, she decided regretfully.
No, she’d buy a nice piece of steak instead. There was a good butcher’s a couple of shops along the same road; she'd pop in there.
By herself, she thought as she waited to be served, lunch was a meal she never bothered about. She might do an egg if she was hungry but mostly a sandwich was all she needed; or a Danish pastry when she was flush. Once on her birthday she’d really indulged herself and bought a great doorstep of Black Forest gateau with extra whipped cream. She’' regretted it afterwards, though; the cream had been a bit off.
‘Nice bit o’ rump!’ the butcher exclaimed, placing the meat in front of him and picking up his knife.
He cut the steak lovingly and she noticed how red his strong hands seemed, matching the meat itself. He was a big, jovial mas with a long, drooping moustache, quite different from Jim, who was short and wiry, Ml of nervous energy.
‘That do you, love?’ the butcher asked, transferring the steak to the scale. ‘Don’t overcook it, mind, or you’re wastin’ your money. Keep it a nice pink inside.’
She hoped it was right. Jim always seemed so much more confident once he had a good meal inside Mm; he was funny that way, quite unlike her. She usually couldn’t care less one way or the other. But he’d been a bit down recently and he needed that job. 'It would suit him, quite apart from the extra money — and she wouldn’t say no to that.
At home she left the steak on the kitchen table, still wrapped in its paper, while she got on with scraping the new potatoes which he preferred to chips these days, specially since reading that article on cholesterol. What if she was making a fuss of him? Didn’t he make a fuss of her too? Her friends said they overdid it and they’d change when they had children, but she knew she couldn’t have children; you have to play the cards you’re dealt, don’t you?
Anyway, those seven years she’d been married had been the best she’d ever known, whatever other people said, Jim was easy to get on with; in fact they suited each other, unlike some of the girls she’d shared a flat with before. As for jobs, he didn’t mind whether she worked or not; she might even find another some day. She’d had a whole string of different jobs in her rime and ended up hating every one of them,
‘Sight, now what’s next?’ she asked herself after setting the table. ‘Mustard, salt, bread, butter…’
The potatoes were already boiling, but she’d not start grilling the steak till he got home. She could get everything ready, though.
Unlike her own local butcher, who usually put his customers’ meat into little plastic bags which he sealed to prevent the juices spilling out, the jovial man with the drooping moustache prided himself on more traditional methods. Already as she removed the outer wrappings she noticed stains where the blood was seeping through. Jim was going to enjoy this, she felt sure. Come to that, so was she. Sharing a meal with Jim was always so much better than eating alone.
Among the folds of paper something moved.
Hazel blinked, wondering if she was imagining things.
Then she saw it again: a definite movement. A mouse? Oh, God, no! Don’t say they had mice!
Yet…
It was a nasty pink creature with yellow and dark green spots which crawled out from the grease-proof paper around the meat. She shuddered at the sight of it. Growing out of either side of its head were lobster-like claws, and for a second or two she was convinced it must somehow have come from the fishmonger’s slab, from among the crayfish and prawns, the lobsters and crabs, the mussels and oysters and cockles and squid and..
But alive? Urgbl
No, that wasn’t possible. She stared with growing horror at how it seemed to be tearing obscenely at a comer of blood-red steak, squatting over part of it as the claws went to work. Then another of the creatures appeared out of the crumpled wrapping paper, joining the first.
She bit her lip, not knowing what to do, undecided whether to risk trying to snatch the meat away from them. Squash them, she thought in a panic, that’s the best thing. Reaching into the cupboard, she found her roiling pin and was poised to bring it down hard on the nearest one when she noticed more.
Her kitchen table was always kept pushed up hard against the wall immediately beneath the window. On. the ledge, scrambling busily among the flower pots, were several of these creatures — whatever they were — and even as she watched, two of them dropped down on to the table, scurrying over towards the meat.
The sight made her suddenly furious. After all the trouble she took to keep her kitchen absolutely spodess, and then to find it crawling with these horrid things! Well, they weren’t going to rain that steak, whatever else they touched.!