Trotter felt his knees giving way. He forced himself to be brave.
I’ll play along with them, he thought. Make them think I’m not going to take a step out of line. Then, as soon as they’re off guard, I’ll escape or call the police.
He led them up the generously proportioned staircase to the first floor of his house.
“This is the master bedroom,” he said, opening a door.
“That’ll be mine, then,” said Rampant.
Trotter felt himself bridle. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
“These are the doors to the other bedrooms. All but one have en-suites, and there’s a family bathroom for good measure. Let’s go back downstairs now. This is the hall of course, library, my study where I do all my work, the lounge, drawing room, snug, kitchen, and utility room, and below this level there’s a large basement and keeping room, and what was the coal cellar in days gone by. That’s it. ”
“It’s perfectly wonderful. My name’s Floyd Rampant by the way, and these are my lovely associates, Kat De Vine and Gary Fletcher. Gary likes to be known as Gaz.”
Rampant extended his hand.
“And you are?” He asked, with a smile on his face.
Against his better instincts, Trotter shook Rampant’s hand, which he found to be rather cold.
“Bob Trotter. You can call me Bob.”
“Splendid. Let’s all be on first name terms. You can call be Floyd. Now then Bob, tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Well, I’m retired,” said Trotter. “And I live here alone.”
He thought he might have made a mistake saying that, so he quickly added:
“I have a cleaner who comes every day, and my son often visits me, and my ex-wife sometimes drops in.”
Rampant nodded and stroked his chin.
“A son, eh?” He said. “Perhaps you could show me a photograph of him.”
Trotter’s heart sank.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” he said.
“What? You don’t have any photographs of your son? That’s rather unusual isn’t it, Bob? Most fathers would keep photographs of their sons close to hand, don’t you think? I have a feeling you’ve been making things up, Bob. I’m right, aren’t I?”
He gave Trotter a penetrating red-eyed stare.
Trotter gulped and nodded.
“There is no son, and no ex-wife either, is there Bob?”
“No. Sorry,” said Trotter.
His mouth felt suddenly dry and he had trouble getting the words out.
Rampant grinned.
“Well, don’t you worry,” he said. “I’m going to be very understanding, as long as it doesn’t happen again. Just behave yourself, and do as you’re told from now on, and things will go well for you. But take one step out of line and you’re going to end up in an awful big pickle. Or a stew.”
De Vine and Fletcher both threw back their heads and laughed. Trotter had the feeling that a joke had been made at his expense, but he didn’t quite get it.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course, of course I’ll behave myself and do as I’m told. You can count on me.”
Rampant pinched Trotter’s cheek.
“I always knew I could, Bob. Now let’s lay down a few ground rules, shall we? You’re going to stay at home from now on, and act as if everything is normal. You’re going to pretend you’ve decided to have three house guests. It’s not really pretence, when you think about it, is it? The fact is that you have decided to take in three house guests, because the consequences of not doing so don’t bear thinking about.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do.”
“So that’s your job. Our job is to make sure that you do your job. It’s as simple as that.”
He thrust his face forward so that his nose was no more than an inch from Trotter’s nose.
“Do you think you can handle the job I’ve just given you, Bob?”
Trotter nodded his head vigorously.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“That’s perfectly splendid.”
“I’m still ravenous. When are we going to eat?” Fletcher asked.
“This evening you two can go on a hunting expedition. I’ll stay here and look after Bob.”
“What will they be hunting?” Trotter asked.
“Fresh supplies of meat for our cooking pots.”
“There’s a Halal butchers a quarter-mile down the road in Birkby, and Tesco if you follow the road into town.”
“We’ll bear that in mind, but I think it’s unlikely that either of them’ll stock what we’re after.”
“The Halal butcher is very good. He sometimes even has mutton which is unusual for a butcher’s shop in Huddersfield.”
Rampant cocked his head to one side and grinned.
“We want the sort of meat that comes on two legs. He won’t stock that.”
“Two-legged meat? What do you mean?” Trotter asked.
Rampant grinned again and did a gesture with the index and middle finger of his right hand, making his hand look like a man taking a walk.
Trotter’s jaw dropped.
“Get it now, do we Bob?”
Trotter felt faint. He turned and fled into his study. As he did so, he heard the peals of laughter of his three new guests ringing in his ears. He stared out of the window for a while, then sat down at his desk, and decided to submerge himself in his writing to take his mind off things. He picked up his pen and read the opening paragraphs of his new noveclass="underline"
‘Amos Crabtree cowered in his garage as his neighbour Terry Baldwick, whose funeral he had attended the previous Saturday, lumbered towards him with his arms outstretched, as if in expectation of an emotional reunion.
Amos had the disturbing feeling that his former neighbour was after more than a friendly hug, and looked around for a means of escape. Unfortunately, he was standing in the narrow corridor between the side of his car and the concrete wall of his garage, and he’d reversed his car close to the end wall of the garage, leaving no scope to run around the rear of it. There was no escape.
He put his hands on the roof of the car and scrabbled with his legs, trying to climb on top of it. He scratched the paintwork he’d been so proud of with his clumsy kicking, but accomplished little else.
Realising that he wasn’t athletic enough to make it onto the roof of his car, Amos turned to face the apparition that was now only a couple of feet away.
His former neighbour was the last thing on earth he wanted to see, but nevertheless he blurted out:
“Terry, it’s great to see you. How are you keeping?”
A second later, Baldwick’s filth-encrusted arms embraced him; he smelled the rankness of Baldwick’s undead body, and felt Baldwick’s teeth sink into his cheek and tear a strip of his face away. He tried to push his attacker away, but—’
Trotter ripped the page from his notebook, screwed it up, and threw it in the waste bin.
The three zombie chefs paced around Trotter’s front room until night had fallen, and then De Vine and Fletcher went out and walked down the hill into Birkby.
De vine, as usual, was very fetchingly dressed in a red boob-tube, a black leather mini-skirt, and black stockings. Her legs, which were long and shapely, looked longer and shapelier still due to the six-inch heels she was wearing. With each step she took, her hips swayed first one way, then the other.
Fletcher, by comparison, looked coarse and brutish, with his burly bouncer’s physique, his squat frame, and his bristling black moustache.
Eventually they entered the outskirts of Birkby. The shops were all closed and not many people were around. Fletcher hid in the shadows outside one of the shops on Grimscar Avenue, while De Vine stood at the edge of the pavement, and did her best to look interesting. It was something that required very little effort on her part; in fact, it came rather naturally to her.