Late afternoon sun peeking through clouds, Lucy Smith relaxed on the front steps of the tenements which contained her flat. She repeatedly plucked the D string of a guitar found on a bus while the owner wasn’t looking. She was learning to play from a book placed on the bottom step. The breeze flapped a page corner against the brick which held it down, and she sang along with each note struck. ‘D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.’ This was easy. They called Hendrix a god just because he could do this? D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.’
Footsteps approached, stopping by the songbook. A shadow hung over her.
She continued twanging. ‘D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D. D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.’
The shadow remained, demanding her attention.
‘D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D. D.D.D.’
And still it waited. Let it wait, she was cooking on gas.
‘D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D.D. D.D.D.D.D.F. Shit.’ Having hit a wrong note, she looked up.
‘You are the human Lucy Jane Smith?’ The compound eyes of a seven foot tall ant, stood on its hind legs, gazed down at her.
‘Depends who’s asking.’
‘I am Destructor, the insect who walks like a man. I communicated with you earlier, on the telephonic device that transmits speech without the need for unsightly shouting.’
She stuck a finger in one ear, clearing out wax, remembering his previous, earbursting performance.
‘You are in search of a mate?’ he asked.
‘A flatmate,’ she corrected, bluntly.
‘Then that shall be me.’
‘You never mentioned mandibles.’
‘Nevertheless I have them. And soon,’ it seethed, ‘soon the human race shall learn to fear them. Soon it shall know the heavy hand of extinction, as my insect hordes sweep through this world, conquering, pillaging and destroying.’
‘How many hordes you got, pal? Doesn’t bother me but Osmo’s not keen on hoarding in his flats.’
‘I have three.’
‘You got three hordes?’
‘Three insects. I have not been in this world long.’
‘How long you been in this world?’
‘Six months.’
‘So in six months you’ve got three insects on your side?’
‘Two cockroaches and a magnificent ladybird. It is a yellow ladybird, with black spots.’ His mandibles opened and closed in a manner presumably meant to be threatening. ‘Quiver and fear, human.’
‘So, in a year you’ll have four cockroaches and two ladybirds?’
‘As you say.’
‘We need not go into details. All you need know is that soon … soon …’
‘You got references?’ she asked.
‘References?’
‘Osmo always insists. No references, no flat.’
‘Then I shall eat this “Osmo”.’
‘Eaten or not, he’ll still want references. He’s the type.’
‘Oh.’ It stood, downcast, antennae twitching, watching the pavement, trying to scheme a way around this problem.
‘You got money?’ she asked.
‘Indeed. I have a vast fortune at my disposal.’
‘How much you got?’
‘Fifty-five pounds.’
‘For fifty-five pounds I could fake you references.’
‘You would do this for me, a stranger?’
‘I’d do it for anyone. That’s what people round here are like.’
‘Lucy Jane Smith, you are a marvellous and splendid flatmate.’
She plucked an E string. ‘Better believe it, babe.’