for one thing. Imagine how embarrassing it’d have been if she’d ever wanted to bring a boy home to meet her folks.’
‘Please.’ Michelle looked round pleadingly, and the chattels fell silent. ‘I owe you so much already, but can you please try and find out who my parents were? My real parents, I mean. You see, I’ve never thought about it before, and now ’
‘It’s all right,’ cooed the dishwasher. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made her cry. Kettle, put yourself on.’
‘Actually,’ muttered the answering machine. ‘We don’t know, of course, but we’ve sort of guessed …’
‘Call it electrical intuition.’
Michelle froze. ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Come on, you’ve got to tell me.’ The answering machine beeped. The other appliances were silent.
‘Oh come on,’ Michelle shouted. ‘Answering machine, you obviously know something. For pity’s sake!’
‘Look, it’s only a guess. We’re probably wrong.’
‘Answering machine!’
‘Hello, I’m sorry there’s no one here to take your call but if you leave your name and telephone num ’
‘Machine!’
‘Oh all right.’ The answering machine rewound itself, hummed and crackled a little, as if clearing its throat. ‘We think your father may possibly be’
And then the fuses blew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stay,’ Akram commanded.’ Good bird.’ The phoenix glowered at him, but he took no notice. Good bedsits are hard to come by, and the photocopied sheet he’d been given said categorically NO PETS. If he’d been inclined to argue the point, he could have made out a case for the phoenix being an instrument of vengeance, not a pet; but there was probably a supplemental photocopied sheet headed NO INSTRUMENTS OF VENGEANCE, which would glide through his letterbox the very next morning if he tried to be all Jesuitical about it. Between daring escapades, therefore, the phoenix lived in a small lock-up unit on the industrial estate, which Akram rented by the week. And if the landlords wanted to take him to task over it, let them; he’d have no difficulty whatsoever in establishing that the phoenix was perfectly legitimate plant and equipment for use in his trade or profession.
He locked up, walked home and let himself in. Just as he was about to switch on the light, a faint noise froze him in his tracks. There was someone in the room.
It happens. Just as undertakers die, policemen get parking tickets and commissioners of inland revenue pay taxes, professional thieves do sometimes get burgled. A tiny spurt of pity flared in his mind for the poor fool of a fellow-artisan who’d been to all the trouble of busting in here to find there was nothing worth stealing, and who would very soon be getting the kicking of a lifetime. He sidled in, closed the door noiselessly, and listened.
Whoever it was must have heard his key in the lock, because the room was completely silent; the sort of silence that proves beyond question that something’s up. Akram knew the score; he leaned against the door, drew a long, thin-bladed knife from the side of his boot, and waited.
Five minutes later, he decided that he couldn’t be bothered, and switched on the light. To his amazement, there was nobody there. His establishment wasn’t large enough to afford concealment to a cockroach, let alone a felon. Imagination playing tricks? Misinterpreted plumbing? Surely not. Akram had relied implicitly on the accuracy of his senses long enough to know that they could be trusted implicitly. He frowned.
Then the penny dropped. He’d switched on the overhead light, and the standard lamp had come on. He stepped smartly over to the lamp, knocked it over and put his foot on the place where the bulb should have been. ‘Gitahtavit,’ he snapped.
Under the toe of his boot, the tiny ball of light squirmed. ‘Ouch,’ it said, ‘you’re hurting.’
‘I’ll hurt a damn sight more in a minute,’ Akram replied. ‘Stop pissing me about. Last thing I need
‘Please.’ Michelle looked round pleadingly, and the chattels fell silent. ‘I owe you so much already, but can you please try and find out who my parents were? My real parents, I mean. You see, I’ve never thought about it before, and now ’
‘It’s all right,’ cooed the dishwasher. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made her cry. Kettle, put yourself on.’
‘Actually,’ muttered the answering machine. ‘We don’t know, of course, but we’ve sort of guessed …’
‘Call it electrical intuition.’
Michelle froze. ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Come on, you’ve got to tell me.’ The answering machine beeped. The other appliances were silent.
‘Oh come on,’ Michelle shouted. ‘Answering machine, you obviously know something. For pity’s sake!’
‘Look, it’s only a guess. We’re probably wrong.’
‘Answering machine!’
‘Hello, I’m sorry there’s no one here to take your call but if you leave your name and telephone num ’
‘Machine!’
‘Oh all right.’ The answering machine rewound itself, hummed and crackled a little, as if clearing its throat. ‘We think your father may possibly be’
And then the fuses blew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stay,’ Akram commanded.’ Good bird.’ The phoenix glowered at him, but he took no notice. Good bedsits are hard to come by, and the photocopied sheet he’d been given said categorically NO PETS. If he’d been inclined to argue the point, he could have made out a case for the phoenix being an instrument of vengeance, not a pet; but there was probably a supplemental photocopied sheet headed NO INSTRUMENTS OF VENGEANCE, which would glide through his letterbox the very next morning if he tried to be all Jesuitical about it. Between daring escapades, therefore, the phoenix lived in a small lock-up unit on the industrial estate, which Akram rented by the week. And if the landlords wanted to take him to task over it, let them; he’d have no difficulty whatsoever in establishing that the phoenix was perfectly legitimate plant and equipment for use in his trade or profession.
He locked up, walked home and let himself in. Just as he was about to switch on the light, a faint noise froze him in his tracks. There was someone in the room.
It happens. Just as undertakers die, policemen get parking tickets and commissioners of inland revenue pay taxes, professional thieves do sometimes get burgled. A tiny spurt of pity flared in his mind for the poor fool of a fellow-artisan who’d been to all the trouble of busting in here to find there was nothing worth stealing, and who would very soon be getting the kicking of a lifetime. He sidled in, closed the door noiselessly, and listened.
Whoever it was must have heard his key in the lock, because the room was completely silent; the sort of silence that proves beyond question that something’s up. Akram knew the score; he leaned against the door, drew a long, thin-bladed knife from the side of his boot, and waited.
Five minutes later, he decided that he couldn’t be bothered, and switched on the light. To his amazement, there was nobody there. His establishment wasn’t large enough to afford concealment to a cockroach, let alone a felon. Imagination playing tricks? Misinterpreted plumbing? Surely not. Akram had relied implicitly on the accuracy of his senses long enough to know that they could be trusted implicitly. He frowned.
Then the penny dropped. He’d switched on the overhead light, and the standard lamp had come on. He stepped smartly over to the lamp, knocked it over and put his foot on the place where the bulb should have been. ‘Gitahtavit,’ he snapped.
Under the toe of his boot, the tiny ball of light squirmed. ‘Ouch,’ it said, ‘you’re hurting.’
‘I’ll hurt a damn sight more in a minute,’ Akram replied. ‘Stop pissing me about. Last thing I need
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