Reaper Man

Light struck … split … slid …

Not that the wizard would have paid much attention, because he’d be too busy worrying about the five-thousand-mile walk back home.

Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past. Bill Door was absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it against the light.

Finally he seemed satisfied.

He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.

Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said,

‘No-one can/sharpen/any-/thing/onday/light.’

She paused.

He waved the blade again.

‘Go/od gr/ief.’

Down in the yard, Cyril stretched his bald neck for another go. Bill Door grinned, and swung the blade towards the sound.

‘Sud/-a-n/oodle-f/od!’

Then he lowered the blade.

THAT’S SHARP.

His grin faded, or at least faded as much as it was able to.

Miss Flitworth turned, following the line of his gaze until it intersected a faint haze over the cornfields.

It looked like a pale grey robe, empty but still somehow maintaining the shape of its wearer, as if a garment on a washing line was catching the breeze.

It wavered for a moment, and then vanished.

‘I saw it,’ said Miss Flitworth.

THAT WASN’T IT. THAT WAS THEM.

‘Them who?’

THEY’RE LIKE — Bill Door waved a hand vaguely — SERVANTS. WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.

Miss Flitworth’s eyes narrowed.

‘Inspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?’ she said.

I SUPPOSE SO—

Miss Flitworth’s face lit up.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

I’M SORRY?

‘My father always made me promise never to help the Revenoo. Even just thinking about the Revenoo, he said, made him want to go and have a lie down. He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse, because at least death didn’t happen to you every year. We had to go out of the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what you’ve got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone.’

She sniffed.

Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word ‘revenue’, which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word ‘scum’.

‘You should have said that they were after you right from the start,’ said Miss Flitworth. ‘The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know. In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ’em into the pond.’

BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.

‘Yeah, but it was fun watching ’em find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.’

NO. NOT TAXES.^{30}

‘Well, well. I didn’t know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.’

YES. IN A WAY.

She sidled closer.

‘When will he come?’

TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.

‘I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.’

IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

‘Are you sure about tonight?’

YES.

‘And that blade will work, will it?’

I DON’T KNOW. IT’S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.

‘Oh.’ She seemed to be considering something.

‘So you’ve got the rest of the day free, then?’

YES?

‘Then you can start getting the harvest in.’

WHAT?

‘It’ll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I’m paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.’

Mrs Cake’s house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.

After a while a muffled voice called out, ‘Is there anybody there?’

‘Knock once for yes,’ Schleppel volunteered.

Windle levered open the letter-box.

‘Excuse me? Mrs Cake?’

The door opened.

Mrs Cake wasn’t what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom. And she had magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He looked down.

Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.

‘I don’t think you could be Mrs Cake,’ said Windle.

‘You want mother,’ said the tall girl. ‘Mother! There’s a gentleman!’

A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs Cake appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from planetary shadow.

‘What d’yew want?’ said Mrs Cake.