Free Wendy Perriam by Wendy Perriam

but the conditions in this room leave a lot to be desired.”
    She tried to see the place through his eyes. Yes, it was dirty, but mice liked a bit of dirt; yes, it was dark, but mice were nocturnal creatures and, by keeping the curtains drawn, she was gradually giving them confidence to come out in the daytime as well as just at night. Besides, the late December weather was so depressingly cold and dank, she preferred to block it out.
    “For one thing, it smells extremely bad.”
    “Oh, you get used to that in time. In any case, the smell is probably nice to them. You know, like dogs who sniff round lamp-posts or roll in steaming cowpats. I don’t think it’s actually right for us to judge what’s good or bad for other species.”
    As if she hadn’t spoken, he continued in his condemnatory tone. “And there are droppings everywhere.”
    “They’re not all droppings.” She glanced down at the floor, where tiny moist black rod-things alternated with minuscule white scales. “Some of them are bits of my skin.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “It’s started flaking off. It’s very thin, you see, and …” No, he didn’t see, judging by his expression. Most people failed to realize what peculiar stuff skin was - even normal skin that didn’t wear away. It had to be strong enough - resilient and waterproof - to provide a barrier against the outside world, yet on the other hand, it was agonisingly sensitive to the slightest sensation of touch. And it varied so dramatically from place to place on the body: gossamer-frail on the eyelids, sandpaper-rough on the heels, padded over the buttocks, wrinkly-loose on the elbows, taut across the shins. And wasn’t it rather extraordinary that hundreds of millions of skin cells died off every day, to be replaced by new cells, sneaking up behind them? Sometimes, when she tuned in to the process, she could hear the screech of the dying cells competing with the triumphant whoops of the new, and the din in her head became so overwhelming she lay sleepless for nights at a stretch.
    “Miss Mackenzie !”
    She started. He’d been saying something and she hadn’t heard a word.
    “I’ve asked you - twice - if you would allow me to examine the premises. I need to make a detailed report.”
    Hardly a question of ‘allowing’ him. He was already prowling around the bedsit, as if he owned the place, opening cupboards, peering under units.
    “This kitchen area is particularly worrying. I can see teeth-marks on the cereal packets.”
    “Of course you can - the cereal is theirs . I buy it for them specially. Their favourites are Cheerios and Grape Nuts. I can’t help it if they eat the boxes as well.”
    “I’d appreciate it, Miss Mackenzie, if you could try to take this seriously. I’m endeavouring to do a job of work and your facetious attitude doesn’t help the process.”
    “I am taking it seriously.” So seriously, in fact, she could feel his harsh words piercing through her body - poisoned arrows now sticking in her flesh.
    “The more you feed the mice, the more you’ll be landed with.”
    “Yes, that’s what Sudu found.”
    “ Sudu ? Who’s Sudu?”
    “A girl I met at work - last year, when I did work. She’s a Buddhist, so she’s forbidden to kill a single living creature - not so much as a house-fly or an ant. The problem is she’s terrified of mice, but her Buddhist teacher, the Venerable thingamajig, said she had to strive to love them rather than fear them. So she tried leaving them food, but of course more and more turned up, and she got into the most awful state, and was tempted to ditch her Buddhist principles and simply put down mouse-traps. In the end, I offered to swap flats with her, which we did three months ago. And the mice are miles happier, because now they’re truly loved.”
    Mr Beamish paused in his examination of a hole in the skirting board to fix her with a reproving stare. “I cannot impress upon you too strongly, Miss Mackenzie, that