Free Volcano Street by David Rain Page B

said Doug Puce – his first contribution that evening. ‘They’re just going next door.’
    ‘Yair, and when’s that cow ever invited us?’ Auntie Noreen looked warningly at the girls. ‘I’ll tell yous one thing: I remember Deirdre Gull before she married that wog. Thought she was a cut above the rest of us, and what does she do? Throws herself away on a dirty reffo, and still puts on her airs and graces! God give me strength. She’s a Lakes girl through and through, and don’t yous believe no different.’
    ‘We won’t, Aunt.’ Marlo tugged her sister to the door.
    Skip was torn. She hardly wanted to stay at Auntie Noreen’s (though the cherry cobbler was tempting) but dreaded Mrs Novak’s. All through the school week she had avoided Honza. In class, she watched contemptuously as he sniggered with the Lum’s Den, dead-leggedShaun Kenny, traded fuck-signs with Andreas Haskas, and gagged with laughter at Brenton Lumsden’s jokes.
    Now she said to Marlo, ‘I thought you hated Pavel.’
    ‘This isn’t about Pavel. We can’t be rude to Mrs Novak.’
    They walked in the middle of the dirt road. Marlo’s eyes had gleamed when she showed Skip the white card, scrawled with loopy handwriting, that invited them to what Mrs Novak called Sunday in the Sanctum. Sanctum! Skip thought of the singers last week, warbling away in German. And one of them, to make matters worse, had been Mr Brooker!
    Numerous cars jammed the Novak driveway and lay becalmed at angles across the lawn. From the front, the house was dark; music and voices drifted from the back. Marlo rang the doorbell several times before, at Skip’s suggestion, they followed the path around the side. Cypresses rose rustlingly. White concrete walls glimmered in the moonlight.
    ‘Big place, isn’t it?’ said Skip.
    ‘Pavel said they had it remodelled. Somewhere under all this is a house like Auntie Noreen’s.’
    They had almost reached the rear when loud barking broke out, and a meaty monster burst from the trees. Skip had forgotten Baskerville.
    ‘Run!’ She slapped Marlo’s arm.
    The night was warm. Guests spilled across the terrace; faces turned, startled, as the girls dived among them, pursued by the mighty beast.
    ‘Baskerville!’ a voice screeched, and the dog scrabbled to a halt and stood panting, as if expecting a treat. Skip was impressed. The screech belonged to the gypsy woman she had seen the week before, who now scurried, shouting and waving, towards the new arrivals. ‘The Wells sisters!’ she cried, and thrust forward a hand with long lacquered nails. ‘I’m Deirdre Novak.’
    The little woman had about her the air of a hyperactive elf. Tonight a bejewelled silver band crowned her jet-black bob of hair;beads clattered at her neck and bangles at her wrists. Her dress was alarmingly brief, a simple shift printed with interlinked purple rings against a bright orange background. She wore black stockings and teetered on spiky heels, in which she still stood some inches short of Marlo.
    She looked Marlo admiringly up and down. ‘Marlene’ – Mar- lay -nah – ‘I declare, you’re even prettier than that son of mine said! Welcome to the Sanctum. You’re going to be a big hit in Crater Lakes, young lady.’ And clutching Marlo’s arm, Mrs Novak led her away.
    Looking around the Sanctum – what was a sanctum? – Skip felt both boredom and alarm. The guests, straggling between the terrace and the long bright room behind, were dreary, the women mostly mutton dressed as lamb like Mrs Novak, or dowdy in a would-be intellectual way; the men, some with combovers, some with thick sideburns, variously resembled golfers, fishermen or TV evangelists. One wore a medallion over a white turtleneck; another sported a black beard intended, no doubt, to suggest a beatnik, though Skip thought he looked like Rolf Harris. Mr Singh, in his saffron-yellow turban, and his skinny wife in her matching sari provided a more authentic exotic touch. How