Danny mounted the step outside Teena Rama’s front door, imagining her lying cold and still, on the lab floor where he’d left her, the time for her revival long gone. And now he had to face Doors. Hollow-stomached he almost pressed the green panel, then decided against it, fearing he might be refused entry for what he’d done to Teena.
A small plant pot stood beside the step. He bent down, tipped it away from him, and retrieved a key from among the cobwebs and woodlice beneath. Teena had kept the key there in case Doors’ systems failed, which she’d expected they would. Danny’s queries about the policy’s wisdom had always been met with a smile and a claim that no burglar worth his salt would be naive enough to look under plant pots for front-door keys. Teena had always been smiling. Danny felt like he’d lost his smile somewhere near the park and would never find it again.
She’d claimed the keys didn’t matter; the house had ways of dealing with unwelcome visitors.
He hoped that didn’t now include him.
He inserted key in lock, turned it and entered.
Danny gently closed the front door behind him and stood in the silent hallway. ‘Doors?’
‘Why, Mr Daniel, hello. I wondered if we’d ever be seeing you again. I followed, through television, your struggles with Mr Meekly. A rum do, and no mistaking. But at least you’re safe and well.’
Danny sighed, ‘Which is more than I can say for Teena.’
‘It’s been an unfortunate affair all round. Still, Mr Smeegle – the undertaker – has arrived to make arrangements. I’m sure he’ll give Miss Rama a delightful send-off. As I recall, she was always rather fond of funerals, once a year attending the burial of a stranger, finding such outings cathartic. I’m sure she’ll find her own doubly so.’
Danny wanted to cry. ‘I’m sorry. Doors.’
‘For …?’
‘For causing her death.’
‘Tish. Think nothing of it. I warned her, on numerous occasions, of her work’s insanity. She never listened, being a wilful creature devoid of sense. In retrospect, her death was quite inevitable.’
He still felt guilty. ‘So, what happens now?’
‘Well, Mr Meekly seems to have vanished. I can find no mention of him on news reports. And believe me, there’s plenty out looking for him, including those who normally hunt Mr Boggy William. Therefore, we must assume he’s reverted to human form or been somehow spirited away. Miss Rama once informed me that, each year, Wheatley sees the disappearance of two-hundred-and-twenty-seven people. No one knows why, other than that they’re all foot fetishists. Arnold Meekly was a foot fetishist. That was why Miss Rama always went barefoot around the house, in case he turned up unannounced. It would be a way to control him, she thought.’
‘And the house?’ asked Danny.
‘Miss Rama’s sister – Akira – has been contacted, and will arrive early tomorrow. She expects to close the house down, dismantle the lab, and transfer me to a little black box to be kept in her own, rather modest, flat. She wouldn’t like to see me deactivated. Frankly, Miss Akira tends to anthropomorphize. It was one of the many things she fell out with Miss Rama over. Will you be joining us?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be happy to reduce you to a black box on her mantelpiece. She’s rather clever at things like that, much cleverer than Miss Rama ever was, though Miss Rama didn’t like me pointing that out.’
‘Er, no, it’s okay. Doors. I’m sure I’ll be able to find alternative accommodation.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Positive.’
‘Only, I think you’d get on famously with Miss Akira. You and Miss Rama were never compatible housemates, her being very much the loner by nature and prone to moods. Her sister’s much more outgoing, keeping an active social circle on her mantelpiece.’
‘No, it’s okay thanks,.’ Danny knew exactly where he’d be staying next but felt it best not to tell Doors. The computer would only try to talk him out of it. And the danger was he might succeed.
‘Oh well. Then goodbye, Mr Daniel. It’s been nice knowing you.’
Danny felt he should say something profound, to make it feel like a story was drawing to a close. It had to be from a book, meaningful statements always were. Writers knew how to end things with a profound shake of the head that said it all about the human condition. Danny possessed no such knack. Unfortunately, he’d only ever read two books. They always reminded him too much of shelves. So he said, ‘Doors?’
‘Yes, Mr Daniel?’
‘You’re worth more than the whole damn lot of them put together.’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Daniel. But what does The Great Gatsby have to do with me? Surely that would be more relevant to Miss Rama, as she was rich and caused her own downfall through overreaching. Not that she resembled Mr Jay Gatsby in any other way, not being prone to throwing parties, nor to wasting her life in pursuit of a vacuous and worthless woman. I rather think Miss Rama would have given Mr Gatsby an ear-bashing and a meat pie, and probably will, should she encounter him on the Other Side.’
Maybe he should have stuck to the only other book quote he knew.
Doors continued, ‘Perhaps she would rather have been compared to that other 1930s icon; Mr Charles Foster Kane, if only because she modelled her video camera work on that of Mr Welles.
‘As a child. Miss Rama had a sled,’ he explained as Danny lost all interest. ‘A mahogany one, with steel runners and a handbrake. When her parents handed it to her, one Christmas morning, they joked it was called Rosebud. She told them not to be childish. She was two years old.’
Danny went upstairs.