Death of a Prankster Read Free

very thin and painted scarlet. ‘How long have you known my son?’
    ‘I have been working at the research centre for some months now,’ said Melissa. ‘Paul is a colleague, that’s all. He asked me to join him on this visit.’
    ‘And of course you jumped at it,’ said Jan contemptuously. ‘Do you always wear your hair like that?’
    ‘Are you always so rude?’ countered Melissa.
    ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Jan. ‘I can tell by that accent of yours, Surrey with the whinge on top, that you are not used to this sort of society. Nor will you become so, if I have anything to say about it.’
    ‘Piss off,’ said Melissa furiously.
    Jan gave a mocking laugh and returned to her son. She said something to him and he shrugged and then crossed the room and sat down next to Melissa. ‘Your mother doesn’t think I’m good enough for you,’ said Melissa.
    ‘Don’t let it bother you. She wouldn’t consider anyone good enough.’
    Melissa was twenty-three, an age she had hitherto felt classified her as a mature woman. Now she felt quite weepy and childlike. She thought of her parents, Mum and Dad in the shabby terraced house in Reading with its poky rooms and weedy garden. She had her own flat now, but as soon as she got out of this hell-hole, she would go and see them. Never again would she be ashamed of her background. There was love and warmth there and comfort. Sod Paul for having dragged her into this!
    But her mood was soon to lighten. Jan was complaining about the heat from the fire. ‘Sit over here, Jan,’ urged old Andrew Trent, his eyes twinkling. He indicated an armchair a good bit away from the fire. Jan sank down gracefully into it and then there came the sound of a large long-drawn-out fart. Jan flew up, her face scarlet. ‘It’s one of those damned cushions,’ she started to rage, but then, mindful of the reason for the visit, she forced a smile on her face. ‘What a joker you are, Andrew,’ she said, and the old man cackled with glee.
    ‘I think Mr Trent’s rather an old duck,’ said Melissa.
    ‘Don’t say that,’ said Paul. ‘Wait till he really gets started. He isn’t ill at all, you see. He must have been feeling lonely. Now he’s got a whole houseful of people to torment.’
    ‘Can’t we just leave … in the morning?’
    ‘It’s snowing a blizzard. Enrico says we’ll be trapped for days.’
    Melissa looked across the room. Mr Trent was watching her. He drooped one eyelid in a wink. Melissa smiled. She thought he was sweet.
     
    The party broke up at eleven o’clock and they all went off to their respective rooms. Paul accompanied Melissa to her door. He stood for a moment moving from foot to foot and staring at her. Then he seized her hand and shook it. ‘Good night,’ he said and scurried off to his own room.
    Melissa shrugged and pushed open her door, noticing as she did so that it was already a little ajar. A bag of flour, which had been balanced over the door and was intended to burst over her, fell instead in one piece, striking her a stunning blow. She clutched her head and reeled forward and sank to her knees on the carpet. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! He! He! He! Haw! Haw! Haw!’ cackled a voice. Still holding her head, she stumbled to her feet, looking around wildly as the hideous cackling went on and on. She found a joke machine, which was producing the hellish laughter, had been hidden behind the clock on the mantelpiece. She seized it and shook it but it went on laughing, so she wrenched open the window and threw the thing out into the white raging blizzard.
    Paul Sinclair had been prepared for jokes, but came to the conclusion that he was to be left alone and began to relax. He opened his shirt drawer to take out a clean shirt for the morning and two clockwork paper bats flew up into his face. Nonetheless, he felt he had got off lightly.
    Angela Trent found her father had sewn up the bottoms of her pyjamas. Betty, who was sharing a room with her sister, lay in bed giggling