Bron-35

Continued from Chapter 34: Bron-34 | ABCtales

“Well, it was worth a try,” said Bron as she closed the door of the Fulham Snake Shack behind them, keeping careful hold of the lidded cardboard box under her left arm. “Who’d have thought they’d be so fussy about what they feed to them? A mouse is a mouse, isn’t it?”

“Well, they said they’re a reptileable repute … a reuptilable rupture…” Grace broke off with a giggle. “They don’t give them any old rodents, you know. Especially ones that have been living behind skirting boards in West London. So, do we set these little guys free in the park, then?”

“Let’s hang on to them for a while longer. They might still come in useful.”

“Useful? What can you use a couple of dozen micey little manges for? Mangy little mice.”

“I’ve got an idea, sort of. When we get back home, we need to call those solicitors again. The ones with the invoice.”

“Oh yeah. It’s been, what, three months?”

“Almost. Bastards.”

Grace replaced the received. She frowned, baffled.

“Well?” said Bron. “What did they say about our invoice? We put that BO number on it, like they asked. You sent it back.”

“PO. Purchase Order. Er, now they’re saying we’ve just missed their next cheque run. We’ll have to wait for the next one.”

“FUCKEM! And when’s that?”

“Not for another six months.”

“Bastards! Cunts! I’m going round there – now!”

The half dozen occupants in the waiting room of Sneed, Rudge and Wivell were startled from their reveries by the jangling of the bell. Then the door shuddered open, swinging back on its hinges, clattering into a dusty rubber plant in its green pot.

Bron marched up to the reception desk, depositing a large buff lidded box sharply on the high counter. “I’ve come for my money. For that de-infestion job we did three months ago.”

The grey-haired, bouffanted receptionist peered through her black horn-rimmed spectacles. “But I think, Miss Jones, we made it perfectly clear our terms of payment and that you will be remunerated when we carry out our next cheque run …”

“Which isn’t going to be for another SIX MONTHS! I’m not havin’ it! You hear, I’m not waiting nine months before I get paid! That’s ridiculous!”

People looked up from their magazines, exchanged glances.

“I can only repeat, Miss Jones. Our strict policy is that we only make payment when we carry out our next…”

“Give me my money! Or I open the box!”

“What’s in the box?”

“You really don’t want to know what’s in the box…Pay me, and you won’t have to find out.”

“Really, Miss Jones! This is most improper…”

“I’m counting to ten. One. Two, Three…”

“Miss Jones – we really cannot …”

“…Seven. Eight. Nine. TEN!”

Bron jerked off the lid and turned the box upside-down on Sneed, Rudge and Wivell’s stained parquet floor. Something thudded onto the floor – a writhing, throbbing squeaking, screeching mass of brown and grey fur. Mice scattered in all directions, into the four corners of the waiting room and under the three office doors. “AAARRRGGGHHAAAAAAIEEEEE!” yelled the receptionist, leaping up onto her chair. The other waiting room occupants jumped to their feet, the plump lady throwing herself into the arms of her husband, who staggered backwards under the weight, nearly collapsing on the parquet. One of the office doors was thrown open, the elderly Mr Rudge roused by the commotion.

Bron had augmented her flock of two dozen house mice with a couple of gigantic house spiders that she’d found in the bathroom. They quickly scuttled off into the corner of the waiting room. The plump lady moaned softly in her husband’s arms. She looked as if she was about to faint.

Bron turned to the receptionist, trembling on her chair: “If you want Petouche back to deal with that little lot, she’s doubled her rates – and it’s cash up front now!”

She turned and slammed the door behind her. The bell jangled.

“Take me outside, Griff,” whispered the plump lady. Outside, her husband set her gently down on the pavement. “You know, I’ve had second thoughts about the divorce. Shall we go home?”  He nodded, mutely, and they headed, hand in hand, for the bus stop.

Back inside, Sid Fox the gardener was having second thoughts too. A gallon of neat herbicide poised over the pristine lawn of 14 Grafton Avenue might just work more quickly than a letter from Sneed, Rudge and Wivell. It would certainly be cheaper.

To be continued in Chapter 36