“What?” went Will.
And “What?” went Will’s dad too.
“Well, it was the right thing to do. I’m an honest citizen and it’s an honest citizen’s duty to report a crime.”
“Uncle Will?” said Will. “This is terrible.”
“I never cared for him much,” said Will’s dad. “Big thighs, he had on him. Not that mine are small, but his were far too big for my liking.”
“But murdered.”
“I didn’t go in,” said Will’s mum. “The front door was open, I could see his body clearly enough and the place was a right mess.”
“Always was,” said Will’s dad. “Those big thighs bumping into furniture.”
“So I went along the corridor to your other Uncle Will’s to call the DOCS.”
“How many Uncle Wills do I have?” Will asked.
“Loads,” said Will’s dad. “It’s a family name. Most of them live here in this tower. Can’t be having with them, myself. All those big thighs and everything.”
“But I didn’t go in there either,” said Will’s mum, “because guess what, his door was open too and he was lying dead on his floor, all full up with holes. Blood and guts splattered all over the place.”
“Your Uncle Wills are getting fewer by the minute,” said Will’s dad.
“What?” said Will.
“Same enema,” said Will’s mum.
“It’s not enema,” said Will’s dad. “It’s M.O. Modus Operandi. An enema is something completely different.”
“I know exactly what an enema is,” said Will’s mum. “I used to do ballroom dancing.”
“Eh?” said Will.
“Don’t ask,” said Will’s dad.
“But my other Uncle Will,” said Will, “was shot dead too?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Will’s mum. “And what are the chances of that happening, eh? It seems that anything is possible in this day and age. Which is why I love it so much.”
“So did you phone the DOCS from that Uncle Will’s?” Will asked. “Well no, because I didn’t want to walk on any vital evidence or anything, so I went further along the corridor to another of your Uncle Wills to make the call and guess what.”
“Do you see a pattern beginning to emerge here?” Will’s dad asked his son.
“He was out,” said Will’s mum. “But your other Uncle Will who lives next door was in.”
“So you made the call from there?” Will asked.
“No, because his door was open and he was—”
Will made strangled gagging noises in his throat.
“Are you all right, son?” Will’s dad asked.
“How many of my Uncle Wills have been murdered?” Will managed to ask.
“Oh, I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions,” said Will’s mum. “They might have committed suicide. It might be a religious thing. A millennial cult, or something.”
“Suicide?” Will spluttered. “But you said they were full up with holes. So they must have been shot more than once.”
“Well there were four of them.”
“Four?”
“I gave up,” said Will’s mum. “I came home and made the phone call from here. I only notified the DOCS about the first Uncle Will, or perhaps it was the second one, I forget. I didn’t want to go bothering them with too many deaths all in the one day.”
“This is terrible,” said Will. “My uncles.”
“I’m getting confused here,” said Will’s dad. “Was it big-thighed Uncle Will, or the one with the pointy head, or …”
“Both of those,” said Will’s mum. “And the one with the funny thing on the end of his nose.”
“Oh he’s not one of ours,” said Will’s dad. “He’s another Will Starling, different clan altogether.”
“He didn’t have the thing on his nose when I saw him,” said Will’s mum. “Mind you, he didn’t have the nose either. Shot right off it was.”
“Stop!” shouted Will, rising from the soon-to-be-suppering table. “You must call the DOCS at once. Notify them of these other murders.”
“I’ll do it later,” said Will’s mum. “The supper’s getting cold.”
The front door chime of the Starling household chanted a corporate ditty.
“Now I wonder who that might be,” Will’s dad wondered. “Go and answer it, son.”
5
Will looked at his dad.
And Will’s dad looked at Will.
“Go on then,” said Will’s dad. “See who it is.”
“No,” Will gave his head vigorous shakings. “It might be a man with a gun.”
“I didn’t order a gun,” said Will’s mum, addressing her considerable husband. “Did you order a gun?”
“Of course I didn’t order a gun, woman. Why would I order a gun?”
“I mean,” said Will, now getting a bit of a shake on, “that it might be the murderer with a gun.”
“Good point.” Will’s dad nodded chins towards his spouse. “The lad has a good point. You answer the door, woman.”
“No,” said Will. “Don’t anyone answer the door. Perhaps they’ll just go away.”
The door chime chanted its corporate ditty once again.
“I’d best go,” said Will’s mum. “Whoever it is will wear out the battery.”
“No, Mum, please.” Will rose from the soon-to-be-suppering table and flapped his slender hands about. “Don’t answer the door. I have a very bad feeling about this.”
“You’re just being silly.” Will’s mum laid aside her ladle and smoothed down the besmutted frontispiece of her gorgeous gingham housecoat. “I will answer the door.”
“No!” Will did leapings. He leapt from the table and he leapt in front of his mum. “I can’t let you do that.” Will turned to face the front door. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
“It’s me, Will,” came the voice of Tim McGregor. “Let me in, you silly sod.”
“Phew,” went Will, in the way that one does. “Hold on Tim, I’m coming.”
Will’s mum shrugged her sizeable shoulders. Will’s dad said, “Serve up the vitals, woman.”
Will opened the front door. “Tim,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.”
“Good to see you too, Will. Why the delay? Were you having –?” Tim made certain gestures about his trouser regions.
“Don’t be crude,” said Will. “Come in.”
“Thanks.” Tim took a step into the Starling household. “Oh, I’ve brought this chap with me,” he said. “Met him in the lift. He was asking for you.” And then Tim didn’t say any more, as he was suddenly buffeted from his feet and hurtled forward, barging into Will and bringing him to the floor.
A terrific figure now stood framed in the doorway. Well above six feet in the height of him and broad across the naked shoulders. The cropped hair on his head was black and so too were his hooded eyes. All black these were, and horrible to look upon. His face was a mask of bitter hatred, bushy brows drawn towards a nose of the aquiline persuasion, improbable cheekbones and a mouth that was a bitter, corded line.
The torso of this being fairly heaved with muscle and all around and about the gargantuan frame hung bullet belts and a fearsome collection of antique weaponry.
In his right hand he held a twenty-first-century phase plasma rifle (with a forty-watt range, naturally).
A hideous smell accompanied this monstrous personage. A rotten-eggy smell, the smell of sulphur, of brimstone, of that now legendary biblical pit that lacks for a bottom.
The terrific, black-eyed, evil-smelling figure glared down at the two young men struggling upon the floor, and then across to Will’s mum and dad.
“William Starling?” he asked in a deeply-timbred voice of the Germanic persuasion. “Which one of you is William Starling?”