“Mr Waterman?” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Harold looked all around the room before replying even – knowing the habits of gremlins – behing the salt cellar.
“Yes?” he said, his gaze fixed, for want of anything better, upon the light bulb.
“Your time is up. Will you come quietly, or should I arrange a nasty – and painful – accident?”
Harold frowned. “I thought I’d sorted this out yesterday?” he said. “You’re looking at the old paperwork without cross-referencing it to the new files on the server at the Dis Bureau of Records.”
“Er… new files?” The voice had lost its self-assurance.
“That’s right. I have another three to four hundred years yet.”
“Bugger.” There was the sound of something being crossed out. “I wish people would send up form 335/R/DOD revised.”
Harold relaxed and allowed himself a smile. “I sent a 335/PD personally.”
“Did you? It must still be in my in-box.”
“Who are you?” Harold asked the light bulb, but there was no reply. Just a drop of ink on the kitchen floor that slowly faded.
Jasfoup was standing in the doorway. “What is a 335-forward-slash-pee-dee?” he asked.
Harold grinned. “I’ve absolutely no idea,” he said. “I made it up.”
© Rachel Green 2007