Death in Disguise Read Free Page B

gaze, he appreciated acutely enslavement in others and poor Janet was a perfect example of subjugation brought to a pretty heel.
    Receiving no response, she now got up and began to stack the bulgy, smearily patterned cereal bowls. They were the unfortunate results of her Usefulness Training in the pottery when she had first arrived. She loathed the blasted things and always handled them roughly, hoping for a reduction in numbers, but they remained obstinately indestructible. Even Christopher, slap-dashing his way through May’s Daisy Chain Spode, washed them up without mishap.
    â€˜As it’s Summa’s birthday no doubt you have some treat in store.’ Arno smiled shyly at the young man opposite, for everyone knew how sweetly the land lay in that direction.
    â€˜Well…’ Usually amiable and open-faced, Christopher appeared ill at ease. ‘There seems to be an awful lot going on already.’
    â€˜But you’ll be wanting to take her out? Maybe on the river?’
    Christopher did not reply and Janet laughed, a forced rough sound with a scrape of malice, pinching some coarse brown breadcrumbs into a little pellet with her bony fingers. Frequently told as a child that she had pianist’s hands, she had never cared to put the supposition to the test.
    â€˜Don’t you believe in romance then, Jan?’ Trixie laughed, too, but merrily, shaking out a mop of blonde curls. Shiny pink lips and thick sooty lashes gave her the look of an expensive china doll.
    Janet got up and started to brush some spilled muesli towards the edge of the table. This was so old that the two halves had begun to warp, shrinking away from each other. A few nuts disappeared through the gap and rolled around on the wooden floor. She decided to be unskilful (the word used by the community to denote behaviour liable to cause a breach of the peace) and leave them there. Trixie tilted her chair back, glanced slyly down and made a tutting sound, her rosebud mouth in a kissy pout.
    Janet took the bowls away, came back with a dustpan and brush and crawled under the table, the bare boards hurting her knees. Ten feet. Male: two Argyle socks—felted with much washing and smelling faintly of camphorated oil—two white cotton, two beige terry towelling and six sturdy sandals. Female: purple lace-up felt bootees embroidered with cabbalistic signs. Mickey Mouse sneakers over socks so brief they barely reached pert, delicate ankles. Jeans were rolled up to just below the knee and, on lately shaven calves, stubble glinted like gold wire.
    Janet’s heart pounded as she glanced at, then quickly looked away from the blue-white milky limbs and fine breakable ankle bones. You could crush them as easily as the rib cage of a bird. The brush slipped and swirled in a suddenly sweaty hand. She reached out, briefly touching near-transparent skin, before pushing the Mickey Mice aside.
    â€˜Mind your feet everyone.’ Aiming for casual busyness she sounded only gruff.
    â€˜And you, Arno?’ asked Christopher.
    â€˜I shall carry on with Tim,’ replied Arno. He got up, collecting the square, stone salt cellars and horn spoons. ‘We’re working on a new straw hood for the hive.’ Every member of the community was artisanally virtuous.
    â€˜You take such trouble,’ said Heather. The words were shrill little pipes. A gymslip of a voice.
    â€˜Oh well…you know…’ Arno appeared embarrassed. ‘We had a little astro-ceremony for him last night, didn’t we Heather?’ said Ken.
    â€˜Mmm. We held him in the light for ever so long.’
    â€˜Then we offered the auric centre of his being to Lady Portia—the pale gold master of serenity.’
    They were so unshakeably positive. Arno said ‘thank you’ not knowing what else to say. Neither the Beavers for all their ring of bright confidence, nor the Lady Portia could help Tim. No one should. He could be loved and that was