Chapter Eight:: Old Friends

As soon as I saw those two familiar faces in the van, for a moment all thoughts of Alfonso vanished from my mind, and in their place, came flooding memories of my childhood.

The small farm holding buried in the mountain woods, the white ducks pecking about in the grey puddles, the blue curl of steam coming up from the chimney, my father chopping logs for an hour without breaking a sweat, my mother carefully taking linen off the line strung between the kitchen window and the apple tree, and placing the folded sheets in the heavy tea chest at the bottom of the stairs. The smell of morning coffee and freshly baked rolls, the long walk down the hill to school, the small pile of odd coloured Wellington boots I found in the forest.

And then I realised I wasn't remembering my childhood, but someone else's. Wood demons can have that effect on you.

"Hello Cat", I said to the one behind the wheel, who grinned underneath his sunglasses. "Hello Stevens", I said to the other, who acknowledged me with a brief wave of his hairy paw.

If you have never seen a wood demon before- and they are quite common in my old country - they are hard to describe. Suffice to say they are hairier than you imagine, and their teeth glow in the dark.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Vee vant our veevil back. Eets that simple."

"I might understand you better if you took that Gauloise out of your mouth."

"Sorry. We want the weevil back. Where is he?"

There are times in your life when you realise you only have less than moments to make the right decision. What to say to your most favourite author once you have finally trapped him in the lift. Whether to have your aunt buried or cremated. Whether to go for the custard tart or the cheesecake.

This was one such moment, and I panicked.

"Under the van", I said, "I think you ran him over".

The two wood demons swung the doors lazily open, and loped out onto the street. Their size made it difficult for them to look properly under the van, but I could hear them sniffing around and scratching the tarmac with their claws. I listened keenly for signs of life from Alfonso, but none came.

Stevens stood up, and leaned towards me over the bonnet. He doesn't speak, but one shaggy shake of his head was enough to let me know I was in trouble. The problem is, once you've made a promise with a wood demon, they never let you forget it.

Cat straightened up, and started whacking a rolling pin slowly and deliberately on his right paw. I recognised it immediately as one from my late sister's vintage collection, which all have pictures from saucy seaside postcards blazoned across them.

I took a step back, only to find the theatregoers still surging and crowding the pavement, as they waited for taxis which would never come. I was trapped.

And then, the miraculous happened. The strains of Huey Lewis and the News singing "It's Hip To Be Square" came dancing over the heads of audience members and demons alike, and a graffiti adorned skateboard skidded to a halt at my feet, with a very recognisable figure at its helm..

TO BE CONTINUED...