Free Little People by Tom Holt Page B

battlecruisers on the inside of my pencil-case lid, even I can spot a rhetorical question. I kept my face shut accordingly.
    â€˜I’ll tell you why,’ she said. ‘Because I spent the whole lousy holiday waiting by the phone, just in case someone might deign to spare the time out of his incredibly busy schedule to find a window to give me a call. Finally, on Christmas Day, the phone does ring, and what do I get? Yuletide greetings. The compliments of the season. Damn it, I got a more passionate Christmas message from the Damart catalogue.’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said;’ then, as she was winding herself up for a really good explosion, I added, ‘But there’s a reason.’
    Cru stopped her countdown with one second to go, just like in the James Bond films. ‘Really?’ she said.
    â€˜Really.’
    She frowned. ‘This had better be either wholly true or stunningly imaginative,’ she said. ‘For choice, both.’
    I grinned feebly. ‘Funny you should say that,’ I said. ‘Because it is. Quite.’
    â€˜Oh God.’ She pulled a face. ‘This isn’t going to be about elves, is it?’
    â€˜Funny you should say that, too.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    â€˜ G o on,’ Cru said wearily. ‘I’m listening.’
    So I told her. The dead elf. (I sort of left out the bit about falling on the poor wee bugger and crushing him to death. Must’ve slipped my mind or something.) The experiments. The microscopic fag end. The eventual close encounter. Daddy George’s suspicious manner and cryptic remarks. The whole incredible tale, right up to the diary and the tiny messages. When I was through, I looked up at her. Not promising.
    â€˜You don’t believe me,’ I muttered.
    â€˜Oh, sure I believe you,’ she said, with a slight snort. ‘That’s not the point.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You heard me. What’s all this stuff about elves got to do with you not phoning me?’
    It took a moment to remind myself that I was the selfish egocentric one in this relationship. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I guess I was preoccupied. And,’ I went on, as wisps of green fire started flickering out of her nostrils, ‘with my stepfather being so bloody suspicious all over the place, there was no way I could get to a phone. You see, there’s a phone in his study and another in the living room, and that’s it. And I couldn’t use the one downstairs because the whole place was crawling with nosy filthy-minded relatives.’
    Long pause, as if she was calling for a manual recount before making up her mind. ‘Well, all right, then,’ she said. ‘I suppose if you couldn’t get to a phone . . . Though you could’ve used a call box.’
    I shook my head. ‘The nearest one’s five miles away, and usually it’s not working.’
    She frowned again. ‘Five miles isn’t that far.’
    â€˜Yes, but if I was gone that long, someone’d have noticed and I’d have been interrogated about where I’d been.’
    â€˜I suppose,’ she said. ‘So, why the hell didn’t you tell me? What do you think I am, a telepath?’
    She lobbed that one at me so gently, it was practically a fond embrace. ‘I didn’t think,’ I replied. ‘And, like I said, I was preoccupied. Which was very wrong of me,’ I added quickly, ‘but you know what it’s like when something starts niggling away at your mind. It gets so that nothing else seems to matter after a while.’
    â€˜If you say so,’ she said. ‘Right,’ she went on, in a much brisker tone of voice. ‘Let’s see this famous diary of yours, then.’
    Much more like it. I fished it out, opened it and pointed. At least, I pointed to where the writing had been. Note the past tense.
    â€˜I can’t see anything,’ Cru said. ‘You sure you’ve got the