“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.
“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.
“And you’re 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.