Read Sprout Mask Replica for Free Online Page A

But it was all a load of old totters, wasn’t it? Brian
clearly had a screw loose somewhere.
    ‘A
screw loose!’ Norman tittered foolishly. But there might be some truth
to it. ‘No,’ Norman shook his head. The whole thing was ludicrous. Luck wasn’t
a virus. Accidents simply happen because accidents simply happen. Why only
yesterday he’d read in the paper about a newly retired police sergeant who was
restoring some rare motorbike he’d found. This chap had the thing upon blocks
and was underneath tinkering, when the bike rolled off and squashed his head.
Accident, pure and simple.
    Norman
cut himself a slice of bread, then went in search of an Elastoplast to dress
the thumb he’d nearly severed.
    Accident,
pure and simple.
    And
painful.
     
    Another month went by
before Norman returned to my uncle’s DMZ. Norman would have liked to have
returned sooner, but he was kept rather busy issuing high court injunctions
against the publication of two books in the disaster series The Truth
Behind… These books, The Truth Behind the RIOI Disaster and The
Truth Behind the Destruction of Crystal Palace, mentioned the names of
certain past members of the Crombie family, in connection with the consumption
of fire extinguishers.
    It was
a somewhat penniless Norman who eventually found himself once again knocking at
the stockade door.
    All
seemed rather quiet within, and answer came there none.
    ‘Hello.’
Norman knocked again. ‘It’s me, Norman. Are you in there, Brian?’ Norman put
his ear to the door. Nothing. Or? Norman’s ear pressed closer. What was that?
It sounded a bit like a distant choir singing. It sounded exactly like a
distant choir singing.
    Norman
drew his ear from the door and cocked his head on one side. Perhaps someone had
a wireless on near by. He pushed upon the stockade door, which creaked open a
few inches and then jammed. Norman put his shoulder to it and pushed again.
    ‘Go
back, go back,’ called a voice. ‘You’re rucking up the carpet.’
    The
door went slam and Norman went, ‘What?’
    There
were scuffling sounds and then the door opened a crack and a wary eye peeped
out. It was one of a pair of such eyes and both belonged to Uncle Brian. They
blinked and then they stared a bit and then they sort of crossed.
    ‘What
order of being are you?’ asked their owner.
    ‘Don’t
lark about, Brian. It’s me, Norman.’
    ‘I
dimly recall the name.
    He’s
lost it completely, thought Norman, I wonder if I should call an ambulance.
    ‘No,
don’t do that.’
    ‘Do
what?’
    ‘Call
an ambulance.’
    ‘How
did you—’
    ‘I just
do. Are you all clear?’
    ‘Actually
I am,’ said Norman. ‘I have absolutely no metal about my person whatsoever. I’m
right off metal at the moment.’
    ‘Then
you can come in. But first you’ll have to promise.’
    ‘Go on.
    ‘Promise
that you won’t speak a word of anything I show you to anyone. Promise?’
    ‘Cross
my heart and hope to die.’ Norman made the appropriate motions with a bespittled
finger.
    ‘Then
enter, friend.’
    Uncle
Brian swung open the heavy door. A light welled from within. It was of that
order we know as ‘ethereal’. A smell welled with it.
    ‘Lavender,’
said Norman, taking a sniff.
    ‘It
might well be. Now hurry before something sees you.
    ‘Some thing?’
    ‘Just
hurry.’
    And so
Norman hurried.
    Uncle
Brian slammed shut the door and turned to grin at his bestest friend. His bestest
friend had no grin to return, his face wore a foolish expression. The one
called a gawp.
    ‘God’s
gaiters,’ whispered Norman. ‘Whatever is it all?’
    ‘Isn’t
it just the business?’ Uncle Brian rubbed his hands together. They were very
clean hands, the nails were nicely manicured.
    ‘It’s—’
Norman turned to view his host. ‘Whoa!’ he continued. ‘What happened to you?’
    Uncle
Brian did a little twirl. The transformation was somewhat dramatic. Gone the
matted hair, greasy aspect, ghastly dried-grass smock and