Blood Substitute by Margaret Duffy

these buildings had been cleaned and netted to keep pigeons away in recent years but this was not the case with Slaterford and Sons, the exterior of which was various shades of sooty-grey, all ledges loaded with bird-droppings. Here, surely, was where the elderly on limited incomes still came to buy the means to keep warm: Chilproof vests, bedsocks, electric fires and small saucepans to heat milk for cocoa. The windows were arranged with a dreary selection of goods; the kind of striped teacloths and towels and candlewick bedcovers that I had not seen since I was a child.
    We entered and immediately found ourselves decanted down a few stairs into a bargain basement atmosphere of cut-price silver plate, appalling knick-knacks, ‘gifts’, tableware, glassware and artificial flowers, all made in the Peoples’ Republic of Eyesore.
    â€˜Next week’s jumble sale fodder,’ Patrick said wonderingly, waving around a wafer-thin silver-plated tray.
    â€˜Please put it down before it folds in half,’ I begged.
    We postponed the basement proper – household, lighting, stationery – and wandered up to the first floor to be faced with dowdy dresses, twin sets and other ‘fashion’ items and then went up again to furniture, bedding, carpets and curtains. People did seem to be buying but none of it, other than what was on the ground floor, appeared to be particularly cheap.
    I seated myself on an artificial leather sofa in the almost deserted furniture department. It was in a hideous shade of congealed blood. ‘Are you going to make any enquiries about Ritter?’ I asked.
    Patrick flopped down beside me. ‘To learn what, though? The man only worked here on and off – or at least in the warehouse. It might be more profitable to ask a few questions there.’
    â€˜This is a weird place.’
    He chuckled. ‘Like a set for a fifties Elstree comedy. Surely all this stuff has to be bankrupt stock.’
    â€˜Do you wish to buy that?’ said a woman’s voice suddenly and loudly behind us.
    Patrick swivelled round to face the speaker. ‘No, I think we can face life without it actually.’
    â€˜Then get off it. This isn’t a rest room.’
    I too turned. She was stick-thin, dressed in black, all knees and elbows, and if she had had another six legs would have more closely resembled Shelob, the giant spider in
The Lord of the Rings.
    Not wishing to risk further venom, we got out of range.
    I expected Patrick to go back down the stairs but he ascended again towards the restaurant and accounts office.
    â€˜Something else to add to one’s nightmare library,’ I commented when we arrived.
    â€˜What is?’
    â€˜That woman. I’ve already had bad dreams about the tall man resembling a scarecrow.’
    â€˜That imagination of yours is going to jump up and bite you one day,’ he said with a broad grin.
    â€˜But at the moment it’s earning me quite a lot of money,’ I pointed out. ‘Tea?’
    â€˜My typhoid jabs aren’t up to date. Are yours?’
    â€˜No, come to think of it, they aren’t.’
    Even in passing we could see that the restaurant was in fact a drab-looking café with no customers, the dispirited staff standing around like zombies. Travelling purposefully Patrick headed for Accounts, which turned out to be a glass-fronted cubicle, no one on duty within, and then strode down a corridor marked STAFF ONLY. Another corridor joined it at right angles and this had a notice propped up against the wall with the single word PRIVATE untidily hand-printed in marker pen on it. No one was about.
    I tried the handle of the door closest to me. It was locked. Running my eye down the corridor all the doors I could see were fastened with padlocks, not just small ones but the kind of thing that would defeat all but the largest bolt-cutters. I silently drew Patrick’s attention to this.
    Patrick went to explore