“Solicitors? What is it? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Relax, Mr. Pratt. This isn’t bad news, it’s good news. Well, there’s some bad news, but it’s mostly good news. You see, a relative of yours has died. That’s the bad bit. The good bit is that you’re going to inherit everything he owned, including a house and some money.”
“Really? That is rather good news. How much will I get?”
“We haven’t had the house valued yet, but given that it’s in the commuter belt, it’ll fetch a fair amount. As for the money, I can’t tell you exactly how much there is, because I haven’t been in touch with the bank yet. But it’s a tidy sum.”
“Approximately how tidy?”
“Approximately one hundred thousand pounds, possibly a smidgin more that will go some way towards paying the legal fees in this difficult probate matter that your relative has burdened you with.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Nothing, Mr. Pratt. Just leave it all in my capable hands and sign a few papers, that’s all.”
“How soon will I get my money?”
“All in good time, Mr Pratt.”
“You don’t understand. I’m really up against it. I’m broke and on the verge of being evicted from my flat. I’m desperate to get my hands on some money.”
So am I, thought Badde.
“You’re on the verge of being evicted?”
“That’s right. I’m three months behind with the rent. The landlord has a Court Order against me. The bailiffs are gonna come round and chuck me out any day now.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Still, I’m glad you told me. I may be able to help. If you can meet with me at my office and bring with you some evidence of your identity, including, but not limited to, your passport and photo-card driving licence, and a bank statement, and a Council Tax bill and a utility bill, all with your name and address on them to prove that you are indeed Wally Pratt, I can draw up a document to allow you to reside in the house belonging to your late relative Ted Forsyth. That should sort out your accommodation problems for the time being. While you’re here, you can also sign a binding agreement to pay my fees.”
“All right, that’s something, I suppose. When will I get my money?”
There probably won’t be any by the time I’ve finished with you, Badde thought.
“That won’t come through for some time, Mr. Pratt. Probate is an awfully complicated and slow process, I’m afraid.”
“All right, how soon can I see you?”
“This afternoon, if you can get here that quickly. It’s Lowe, Petty and Badde Solicitors, and we’re off the B272 just down the road from the sewage works.”
“I can get there for two o’clock this afternoon if that’s convenient.”
“That’s ideal, Mr. Pratt. I’ll make sure I have the documents ready for you to sign and a key to the house for you to collect. Bye-bye for now.”
“Good-bye — and thank you so much.”
“Well, thank you so much, Mr. Pratt.”
Pratt met with Badde at the appointed hour, signed up to contract to pay Badde’s eye-watering fees, and left with the keys to 41 Acacia avenue.
CHAPTER 16
In a house in Croydon, Ricard Hoyle was packing a box with crockery. He stopped to wipe the sweat off his bald head.
“This moving malarkey is bloody hard work,” he said. “I can’t wait till it’s all over.”
“You and me both,” said his partner Darren. “Anyway, we don’t have long to wait. It’s all happening tomorrow, and we haven’t got much left to pack. Let’s go out to eat tonight shall we? I don’t think I can face eating in here tonight. The place seems sad and bare now that we’ve taken our pictures down and packed everything away.”
“I was thinking that myself. Let’s go to Rodizio Petro. By the way, do yer know where the estate agent’s brochure is? I want to ’ave another look at our new home.”
Darren took a coloured leaflet from the worktop and handed it to Richard, who opened it and scrutinised the pictures inside.
“We’ll be able to do a lot with this place,” he said. “And I like the name of the road. it’s on. Acacia Avenue. It has a nice ring to it.”
“What number is it again?”
“It’s 43; 43 Acacia Avenue.”
CHAPTER 17
The following morning Pratt had moved into 41 Acacia Avenue and was making use of its former owner’s dilapidated furniture. He unpacked his bag and hung the few clothes he owned in the late Ted Forsyth’s wardrobe before heading downstairs to make tea. While examining the dubious stains in Ted’s tea cups he saw something moving rapidly across the kitchen floor.
He swivelled his skinny head and caught a glimpse of a mouse disappearing beneath one of the kitchen units.
Pratt hated mice.
More; he was frightened of them. He felt himself go all a-quiver. He scurried out to the local hardware shop, bought a dozen mousetraps, and baited them with cooking chocolate and peanut butter. He scattered them beneath the kitchen units.
Then he went out for a walk. As soon as he got back he inspected the traps and was rewarded by the sight of a dead mouse. Its neck had been broken by the spring-loaded metal arm of the mousetrap, it looked up at him from an odd angle with a rueful grin on its face.
He’d noticed a stash of plastic bags in the cupboard under the sink. He selected one of the sturdier bags and put it over his hand like a glove and used it to pick up the mousetrap. Then he went outside and threw the bag together with the mousetrap into the grey waste-bin on his drive.
As Pratt wandered back inside into towards the living room he noticed a door leading to a part of the house he’d not yet explored. He opened it and found himself in front of a flight of stairs. He fumbled around on the wall for a light switch and when he depressed it, the scary black void at the bottom of the steps was transformed into a well-lit and inviting room. He descended the steps and looked around in wonder at the spacious cellar.
It was painted white and was spotlessly clean. Above his head, strip-lights hummed. All around the edges of the cellar there were workbenches covered in tools and scientific equipment. What really caught his eye was the huge machine that stood in the center of the room. Even though Pratt had no idea what it was, it took his breath away.
It was the Lazarus Machine, the device that Ted Forsyth, Pratt’s distant and dead relative, had used to create Henderson, the first ever zomcat, and Floyd Rampant, the first ever zombie. But Pratt wasn’t to know that.
There was a metal plate bolted to the machine. It was the size and shape of a narrow single bed and it had a scattering of dark blobs on it. Pratt inspected them closely. They were dead wood-lice. He walked around, taking it in from every angle. He was so engrossed that he almost tripped over the various cables extending from the machine.
He walked around the perimeter of the cellar and inspected the workbenches more closely. On one of them there was a computer that was connected to the machine and was evidently used to operate it. He switched it on.
Pratt was an expert with computers, having been trained by a friend who’d taught him the dark art of hacking. He soon got past Ted’s passwords required to access the operating system.
He tapped away at the keyboard. By trial, error, and instinct, he eventually got the Lazarus Machine going. It began to hum. The metal plate slid silently on steel rails into the body of the machine and disappeared from view. The humming got louder and the overhead strip-lights flickered. A strange blue glow emanated from the innards of the machine.