by Debi Gliori
“Heavens knows what horrors are growing in it,” agreed the butler, spooning a consolatory half-dozen potatoes onto his plate.
With this in mind, Titus headed for the kitchen and, some minutes later, crept across the reception area on his way upstairs, carrying a large china platter on which lay the carcass of the goose. He discovered that it was still warm when he stuffed the cavity beneath the bird’s rib cage with ectoplasm. Being ectoplasm, it slithered and flopped, disobeying the rules of gravity, oozing from between the ribs, with some of it vaporizing in a misty swirl over the china platter.
Titus had to admit that this was one of the most unpleasant tasks he’d ever undertaken in the name of scientific discovery. It was about to get worse. Pushing the handkerchief stained with Pandora’s blood into the congealing warmth of the ectoplasm-stuffed goose made his stomach lurch sickeningly into his throat. And when Titus stabbed himself in the finger with his mother’s brooch pin and caught sight of his own blood, he had to lie down immediately. Overhead, the room spun slowly round and, just to put the lid on his discomfort, the smell of clotting goose fat clung to his hair, his clothes, his—Titus bolted for the bathroom and was noisily and copiously sick.
Ten minutes later, pale and wobbly, he was ready to achieve his goal. The goose was balanced on top of the radiator to keep it warm. His laptop hummed quietly, its infrared port pointed directly at the goose’s vent, and the bloodstained ectoplasm bubbled and heaved nicely within. On the laptop screen, a menu appeared:
“Yessss!” Titus hissed. “Yes, yes, yes, YES!”
“I thought I heard you in here,” said a voice. “Phwoaaarr—what’s that sme—? TITUS? What on earth are you doing with that goose?”
Titus turned. Pandora stood in the open doorway, her face pale, her eyes saucerlike in total incomprehension. Unnoticed, Damp wobbled across the carpet toward the radiator. She, too, was somewhat puzzled by the reappearance of the lunchtime goose, but she put that mystery to one side when she caught sight of Titus’s laptop. It glowed invitingly, cursor a-blink, the background music of the diy-clones program drawing Damp in closer.
“I’m . . . um . . . um,” Titus mumbled, horribly aware that his stomach, which he fervently hoped might have calmed down, hadn’t.
“That is so disgusting, Titus. Eurrgh. Gross. Can’t you open a window? It honks in here—bleurch, you’re sick, Titus.”
“Mmrghh . . . ,” Titus agreed.
Damp pressed a key on the piano thing, but to her disappointment, absolutely nothing happened. She peered at the screen, patted the keyboard with an open hand, paused, and then thumped several keys simultaneously. In the background, Pandora struggled with the window fastening, but being a hotel window, it steadfastly refused to open. Damp gave a small squawk and fell backward onto her bottom. The screen turned bright blood-red, and the programmed music was abruptly replaced with a deep and irrevocable hum.
“OH MY GLAARGHHH!” Titus, torn between rescuing his cloning project and the overwhelming desire to void his stomach of all its contents, achieved the best of both worlds. He threw up over his laptop, but not before he caught the ominous message written on its screen:
Cloning activated successfully
It wasn’t until several hours later, after much mopping and scraping and many recriminations and apologies, that Titus and Pandora were sufficiently reconciled to discover deep in the clone monitor menu that Damp had inadvertently altered Titus’s game plan somewhat. Brother clutched sister in utter horror as both read onscreen:
Size 10%
Quality Draft
Color Pink
and, more importantly,
Units (total) 500
Dirty Deeds
In the kitchen at StregaSchloss, Tarantella was freezing cold. Outside the kitchen windows, the snow had turned overnight to sleety rain interspersed with dazzling winter sunshine, but the interior of the house bore more resemblance to an overenthusiastic freezer than a dwelling. To add to the general misery, the blizzard that had fallen through the de-tiled roof had thawed, soaked through the entire house, and begun to drip into the kitchen. Tarantella took shelter in the plate-warming oven of the range, which, though cold, was at least dry. She had been spinning a lair of spider silk when she heard noises from outside.
Tip-tap, tip-tap came a faint percussive footfall along the kitchen corridor. Peering through the air vents in the oven, Tarantella could just see a furry apparition picking its way delicately across the flooded kitchen floor.
“Hugh-hoo?” caroled a female voice. “Darling? Where are you?”
From the kitchen garden, a measured tread could be heard. The garden door opened and, preceded by a cloud of smoke, a man stepped into the kitchen. “Ffion, you made it,” he said.
To Tarantella’s disgust, the female furry thing scampered across the floor and glued its mouthparts to those of the smoky man. Both participants in this ghastly biped ritual squirmed and groaned, finally breaking apart and gazing hungrily at each other. “Get on with it,” muttered Tarantella. “Just gobble him up, there’s a good girl.”
“Hugh, darling, I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you,” the furry one said. “And on Christmas Eve, having to pretend that you were just a friend. . . .”
“Agony, my sweet,” the smoky man agreed, “but not for too much longer now. . . .”
The couple gazed around. From the kitchen ceiling, a steady dripping indicated that StregaSchloss was in dire need of repair.
The smoky man gave a little grunt of satisfaction. “The boys did well last night,” he said. “That roof’s totally ruined now. When the Sega-Porsches find out that the repair bill is now in the millions, they’ll be only too glad to sell up and go.”
“What a dump,” said the furry one, splashing across the floor. “I knew she was a slob, despite all her airs and graces. What a pigsty. D’you know, Hugh, I could swear I just saw something move in that corner over there.”
“Probably a rat,” said the smoky man. “I wouldn’t worry about it. When we raze this monstrosity to the ground, the rats will be destroyed with it.”
From her quarters in the pantry, Multitudina gave a squeak of outrage.
“Eughh,” said the furry biped, “I heard it. We used to have them running around at the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms, but I soon got rid of them. With the same rat poison I’ve been sprinkling in Morty’s nightcap, actually. . . .”
The smoky man shuddered and drew deeply on his cigar. “What a ruthless pair we make,” he observed. “One intent on eliminating her husband, the other determined to demolish this crumbling heap, closely followed by his business partner. . . .”
“Perfectly matched, darling,” the furry one breathed. “Nothing can hope to stand in our way. Nothing will be allowed to.”
“And when your husband finally succumbs to your deadly attentions, and I despatch that moronic but useful Vincent Bella-Vista. . . .”
“Don’t forget his frightful girlfriend, darling. We don’t want her blowing the whistle on our little enterprise, do we?”
“Who could ever forget Vadette?” the smoky man said. “However, I predict with absolute certainty that Vadette will take her own life in an excess of grief over losing Vinnie. Then we flog Morty’s hotel, flog this crumbling heap and its extensive grounds to the Nuclear Waste Reprocessing Conglomerate, and head for the sun. Together—at last.”
“Oh, Hugh, darling, you’re a genius.” Once more, the furry one advanced on the smoky man and glued her mouthparts to his.
“Disgusting,” remarked Tarantella with relish, settling comfortably in front of the oven vents, all the beter to spy on the proceedings. She nibbled at a mummified wasp that had blundered fatally into the plate-warming oven the previous summer. “Devious, delinquent, and demonic, in fact. Downright dastardly—but utterly fascinating, nonetheless.” She leapt up to the vent and gazed out into the kitchen. To her disappointment, fur and smoke had gone. Scanning the whole kitchen, Tarantella spotted movement under the table.
Since it appeared that the coast was clear, she squeezed through the air vent to investigate.
What she discovered swimming in a pool of snowmelt under the kitchen table caused her to bolt at top speed back to the safety of the oven. “Oh, my word!” she gasped. “Something truly weird is happening. A microscopic throng of shrunken squaddies appears to be materializing out there. . . .”
Bracing herself for another look, Tarantella peered through the gap. Hundreds of tiny somethings were wading across a pool of water underneath the kitchen table, heading for dry land. Tiny somethings clad in skirts waving pointy sticks in a decidedly unfriendly manner. Tiny somethings that appeared to be growing by the minute. Tarantella blinked. The low-slanting winter sunshine reflected off hundreds of tiny shields advancing out from under the table. The forgotten tincture of Ffup-tooth had mixed with the snowmelt dripping through the kitchen ceiling, and from this combination, a battalion of tiny warriors had sprung.
Retreating to the back of the plate-warming oven, Tarantella knelt down on all eight of her hairy knees. “Pandora,” she beseeched. “PANDORA—please come home.”
Making a Killing
Boxing Day at StregaSchloss had traditionally been spent in a heap of half-built Lego models, picking at the cold remains of Christmas lunch, and later, in the company of mountains of tangerines and boxes of chocolates, watching classic films in a room that always smelt of wood smoke and pine needles. The Strega-Borgias always took the phone off the hook, the great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother out of the freezer, and finished the day by playing charades in the library. Not so this year. On this Boxing Day, the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms offered little in the way of seasonal comfort. It appeared to be a day in the hotel management calendar for which the word “anticlimax” had been invented.
Aware that her siblings were not best pleased with her after the catastrophic interference with Titus’s laptop, Damp grizzled and clung limpet-like to Mrs. McLachlan. Titus and Pandora were conspicuous by their absence, and sneezing explosively, Latch had gone out for a lochside trek with the beasts, and, to their dismay, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia found that they had company in the residents’ lounge. Sprawled across the only comfortable sofa were Vinnie and Vadette, wreathed in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Since the only alternative to sharing the lounge with this pair was to return to their bedroom, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia sighed in stereo and joined the builder and his girlfriend.
Signora Strega-Borgia folded her legs into a rigid settle while her husband paced moodily in front of the bookshelves by the fire. “Baci,” he said, “can I get you something to read?”
“Why not?” said Signora Strega-Borgia. “Pass me that book on financial management for the homeless businesswoman, would you?”
“You don’t want to read that stuff in a book,” said Vincent Bella-Vista, coughing wetly as he threw his cigarette in the vague direction of the fireplace. “No one ever learnt anything from books. They’re total rubbish.”
“Really?” said Signora Strega-Borgia, catching her husband’s eye as they raised eyebrows in tandem. “You’ve read them all, have you?”
“Waste of time, the lot of ’em. . . .” The builder waved dismissively at the bookcase.
“Especially the ones with pictures on the cover,” added Vadette, not to be outdone. “Why, anyone would think that only floozies and con men came to the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms. . . .”
“Don’t they?” murmured Signora Strega-Borgia, taking in Vinnie’s natty brown pinstripe suit and Vadette’s pink lurex mini-skirt that barely covered her stomach, let alone her vast thighs.
“Nah. . . .” Vinnie held out an open packet of cigarettes, unaware of the veiled insult. “This place, now, this is what I call class. Cut above the rest—know what I mean?”
“No,” said Signora Strega-Borgia in answer to both the offer of a cigarette and Vinnie’s question, “I don’t, actually.”
“Ages the skin dreadfully,” came a voice from the doorway. “Makes one smell like an old ashtray, doesn’t it, Vadette, pet?”
Vadette inhaled deeply and glowered up at Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell. “I’d rather smell like an ashtray than a butcher’s shop—Fifi, what the hell is that you’re wearing?”
“This old thing?” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell laughed girlishly. “Oh, it’s my Dior, actually. Baby sealskin with whalebone corsetry—marvelous what you can do with a few bits of dead animal, isn’t it?”
Signora Strega-Borgia blanched as the manageress bore down on where she was sitting.
“I’m afraid there’s been a complaint,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell confided. “One of our American guests—lawyer chappie in room forty-three, the tedious type who always threatens to sue if the soup’s too soupy or the sheets too . . . Anyway, he rang downstairs to say he’s trying to sleep, but the racket coming from your son’s room is making it quite impossible.”
“Titus?” said Signora Strega-Borgia. “I’ll go and see.”
“And,” continued Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, “while you’re up there—heavens, I don’t know how to put this without causing offense. . . .” The manageress leaned in close to where Signora Strega-Borgia sat rigid with embarrassment. “The chambermaid has complained about the smell in your son’s room. Apparently, it’s so bad that she’s flatly refusing to go in there and clean.”
“I’ll go immediately.” Signora Strega-Borgia unfolded herself from the settle and ran upstairs.
“I do apologize,” said Signor Strega-Borgia. “I’m sure my wife will sort it out.”
“Luciano,” said Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, turning on him a smile of dazzling whiteness, “let me introduce you to one of my dearest friends, Vincent Bella-Vista.”
“Luciano Strega-Borgia,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, reaching over to shake the builder’s outstretched hand, “from StregaSchloss, just outside the village. Do you live locally?”
Feeling distinctly overlooked, Vadette thrust out her hand. “We live in the bungalow on the hill where the old public toilets used to be. Vinnie built it last year and we just added on a sauna and a big garage for our matching white vans. I’m Vadette, affianced to dear Vincent here. I help him with his business.”
At sea in Vadette’s tide of domestic information, Signor Strega-Borgia turned back to the builder and attempted to appear interested. “Do you work locally, Mr. Bella-Vista? Living out at StregaSchloss, we’re a bit out of touch with what goes on in the village. . . .”
Vincent Bella-Vista lit a fresh cigarette and smiled up at Signor Strega-Borgia. “I do a bit of this and a bit of that,” he confessed modestly. “Demolition and re-building, if you know what I mean.”
“All too well,” said Signor Strega-Borgia. “My family and I have had to decamp here temporarily because of a problem with our roof.”
Vincent Bella-Vista sighed sympathetically. “Those old properties—waste of money, if you ask me—cost a fortune to repair. There comes a time when it’s far simpler just to knock the whole thing down and start again. . . . StregaSchloss, did you say? Down on the sea loch? Must be—what, six, seven hundred years old?”
“Give or take the odd century,” agreed Signor Strega-Borgia. “Been in the family since the year dot.”
“Roof’s going to set you back a bit, mate.” The builder grinned. “Ever thought about selling up and going for something a bit more manageable?”
“Frequently,” muttered Signor Strega-Borgia, cast into immediate gloom by the reminder of what the roof repair was going to cost.
“I could do you a deal, squire.” Vincent Bella-Vista winked at Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, who was paying close attention to this conversation. “Take the old place off your hands, do you a nice five-bedroomed special over the other side of the village on the Bogginview estate . . . ?”
“Um . . . ,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, floundering in a vision of life without StregaSchloss. “But we keep beasts . . . staff . . . a cryogenically preserved great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.”
“No problemski—we could throw in a garden shed and a double garage as well.” Sensing that his potential client was beginning to panic, the builder backed off. “Tell you what—you go away and have a think about it. Talk it over with your wife. See what the kiddies think. . . . Here’s my card—I’d be happy to talk you through it anytime you want.”
“Vinnie, you’re such a relentless businessman,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell cooed, gliding over and wrapping a protective arm round Signor Strega-Borgia. “Leave this poor man alone. It’s a holiday today, remember? Now, can I get anyone a drink? Luciano? What’ll you have?”
Outside, a crunching of gravel alerted the occupants of the residents’ lounge to the arrival of a police car.
“Oh, Lord,” muttered Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, “what do they want? I’ll just go and see—back in a tick. . . .”
In the bedroom that Titus shared with Latch and five hundred pink clones, the arrival of their mother threw Titus and Pandora into a panic. Titus grabbed the foul goose carcass from its hiding place in the wardrobe, leapt into the bathroom, and locked himself in. Pandora opened the door to admit her mother.
“Euchhh—what a frightful smell.” Signora Strega-Borgia gagged as a wave of decomposing goose rolled greasily into the corridor. “What is going on?”
“Titus . . . um . . . it’s the goose,” Pandora improvised wildly. “He’s got diarrhea—Titus, not the goose. It’s really awful—he’s been in there for ages.”
Signora Strega-Borgia edged into the bedroom holding a handkerchief to her mouth. “Poor Titus,” she said, calling through the bathroom door. “Darling? Can I get you anything? Some ice water?”
From the bathroom came a yell and an accompanying crash of china. “Oh, no—the goose! Aaaargh! Oh, yeurchhh! Stop it!”
“What is he saying?” Signora Strega-Borgia pressed her ear up to the bathroom door. “Who is he talking to? Stop what? What is he doing in there?”
