The man walked up to Pratt and extended his hand.
“Are you-are you Richard Hoyle’s..er…partner?”
“That’s right. You met him the other day didn’t you?”
“Yes I did.”
Pratt felt the same sort of confusion he’d felt when Anya had done the same earlier in the day, only more so, because it was apparent to him that his new neighbour was not only racially inferior, he was gay to boot. He wondered if he’d catch something by shaking Darren’s hand, homosexuality perhaps, if it was contagious. For a moment he prevaricated, and then he shook hands out of the polite hypocrisy which is of prime importance in Britain. He broke off the handshake as soon as he could and forced himself to say:
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” even though he wasn’t.
“Thank you,” said Darren. “It’s good to get to know your neighbours, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I must dash.”
He hastened indoors, where he wiped his hand on his pants, and then, to be sure he was free of all possibility of racial or sexual infection, washed them thoroughly in the basin in the downstairs toilet.
CHAPTER 30
“I’ve just met our next door neighbour, whatsisname. He seems a nice chap,” Darren said to Richard.“Yeah he does. Mind you, he could wash his hands more often. Worris ’is name? I’ve forgotten.”
“I didn’t ask. Anyway, we must have him round for coffee sometime.”
“You’re right. I’ll ask ’im first chance I get. Or maybe we could pop round there. He’s new round ’ere, same as us. We could take ’im a moving-in present.”
“What a good idea.”
CHAPTER 31
When his hands were properly clean and, he felt, free of all racial and homosexual infection, Pratt ambled through to the kitchen in a state of despair, trying to focus his mind on what to do about the two bodies in the cellar; those of his creation and of the now brainless Kaz.
His thoughts were interrupted by a crashing sound coming from downstairs. He thought at first he’d imagined it, but then he heard it again. With his heart racing, he opened the cellar floor and descended the steep flight of steps.
When he got there he saw that his creature was on her feet staggering around and crashing into things, as if she had little sense of balance. She caught her foot on a cable and went sprawling to the floor with a sickening bump. It didn’t seem to do her any harm. She got to her feet again and started staggering around once more.
Pratt didn’t know what to do. He went back upstairs in a state of confusion.
He wondered if she might be hungry, so he made a hurried meal of microwaved bangers and mash from a packet and took it downstairs. He held the plate out with both hands, offering it to his creature. She looked at it. He raised it towards her face. She sniffed it like an animal, and with the back of her hand she slapped it away. The blow was so powerful that the plate was knocked from Pratt’s grasp and sent flying across the cellar. It smashed against the far wall, leaving a residue of mash sticking to the plaster.
His creature then spoke her first word:
“Meat!”
Pratt hurried back upstairs. He put on his jacket to go out to the butcher, and then he realised that the noise in the cellar had stopped. Wondering what was going on, he returned to the cellar and found her next to one of the chest freezers. It was the one containing Kaz’s body. The lid was open. His creature had something in her hands. It was a brain. She raised it to her mouth, took a bite out of it, and began chewing. She looked at him and grinned happily.
“Meat!” She said. She let go of the brain with one hand and pointed at it. “Meat!”
Pratt turned around and dashed back up the stairs. He rushed into the downstairs toilet and threw up forcefully.
He rinsed his mouth out and brushed his teeth to get rid of the taste.
I ought to look on the bright side, he thought. At least she’s eaten, and I don’t have to worry about making her a meal for a while.
He went to the cellar again and found her still enjoying her meal of raw brain.
Well, he thought. I might as well put the rest of the plan into effect.
He switched on the televisions he’d installed in the cellar. They were connected to computers which he’d programmed with non-stop political footage he’d downloaded from the internet.
She looked up from her meal. Everywhere she turned, there was a television showing the same political footage, which was intended to help her to attain a mastery of politics and oratory.
She seemed happy to watch it while she ate. Pratt couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was taking it in. After a while she stood up and walked to side of the cellar. Pratt noticed that her walking had much improved. She looked in one of the mirrors he’d attached to the wall and. studied her face from a number of angles, and then she looked quizzically at the images on one of the televisions.
Pratt felt he could leave her and went to the butcher to get some meat. He bought a joint of beef, roasted it in the oven, and served it up with gravy and veg. When he took it downstairs, it met with the same fate as the bangers and mash he’d given her earlier.
She glared at him, and he felt intimidated and retreated hastily to the safety of the upstairs front room, where he sat pondering what he should feed to his creation, and when she would next be hungry.
Then a disturbing thought occurred to him. He hurried out to the hardware shop and bought four sturdy bolts and two locks, and fitted them to the cellar door.
CHAPTER 32
It was a mystery.
Brian Philpott couldn’t understand why anyone would break into his factory, far less why they would break into it without taking anything much of value. But that’s just what they’d done. A burglar had smashed open the back door, presumably late at night, entered, and stolen only three items, or six items, depending on which way you looked at it.
Philpott was the last clog-maker in Huddersfield, and the burglar had stolen three pairs of his finest clogs. Philpott wouldn’t miss them, and he wasn’t concerned about the cost of repairing his back door. He could afford to cover these minor losses. Business had been brisk lately. He’d been taking orders for clogs from all over the country, as people prepared for the nationwide flurry of zombie clog-dancing festivals that were soon to be held in every city, town, village and hamlet in the United Kingdom.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what possible motive the thief could have had for his rather peculiar crime.
CHAPTER 33
A C-17 Globemaster III touched down at Heathrow. It was one of the largest transport aircraft available to the American military. As it pulled up on the tarmac a group of airmen emerged, opened the doors of the hold and went inside. They emerged a few minutes later driving the specially adapted Cadillac limousines that were to be used for the President’s motorcade. There were ten in all. The men went into the hold again, and this time appeared on Harley Davidson police motorbikes that would drive ahead and at the flanks of the motorcade. They parked all the vehicles in a neat line on the landing strip next to the huge aircraft.
An hour later, the President’s personal airplane — Air Force One — touched down on the same airstrip and taxied up close behind the C-17 Globemaster. Members of the American Press climbed out — all of them male — followed by an army of CIA men wearing their usual uniforms of dark suits, white shirts and dark ties, dark glasses and earpieces. Then the President himself emerged and stood at the top of the steps, posing and waving his hat. For once, there was no waiting band of admirers on the ground below, just a bunch of members of the American and British media, but he made the most of it, smiling and looking upbeat.