Chapter Twenty-Seven
in which Tufty does a Good Deed and has a
poke about in a Very Messy Place
Tufty propped Mr Murray against the wall. Holding him there with one hand while the other went a-rummaging for house keys.
And yes, it would’ve been a lot easier if Sergeant Rennie, or the Sarge, or Officer Kent had offered to help – because assisting Mr Murray across the road from his burnt-out hotel was a bit like wrestling drunken jelly – but Tufty did hasan initiative. So he could totally do this.
Aha! Keys.
The name on the fob was the same as the faded sign above the door: ‘DUNRENOVATIN’, so this had to be the place.
He unlocked the door and shoved it open, then turned to give the Sarge a wave, but he was busy talking to PC Kent.
Droop.
Ah well.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Tufty took a firm hold of Mr Murray’s arm and hauled him upright – wibble-wobble – then steered him over the threshold and into a dark and dusty hallway.
Oooh,atmospheric.
Envelopes and flyers spilled out from the edges of a sisal mat, like they’d been kicked onto the black-and-white tiles. Or at least the tileslookedblack-and-white, it was hard to tell under all that dirt. A fancy staircase swooped upwards, discarded books and empty bottles lining the steps. Spooky high ceilings.
Cobwebs colonised every corner, blurring the edges as they sagged under ancient layers of dust.
This must’ve been a big fancy house at one time, abandoned long ago to the mice, spiders, and ghosts...
Ah well.
Tufty folded his new friend over the newel post at the foot of the stairs, then scurried back to close the front door with aclunk.
Doo, doo doo-doo.Click, click.
Keeping an eye out for disembodied hands or Cousin Itts, Tufty tiptoed to the bottom step. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’
The house swallowed his words before they could echo.
‘HELLO-OH?’
No reply.
‘Mr Murray, is there someone here who can look after you?’
Being draped over like that, made his words all muffled and breathy: ‘’Lone...Aaaaaaaall ’lone.’
In which case Tufty would just have to save the day.
He pulled Mr Murray upright again. ‘Right: bed.’
‘No. No, no, no, no, no...’ Mr Murray waved his hands like a fly was trying to scoot up his nose. ‘Whisky.’ And off he lurched, stiff-legged as a wind-up penguin, to a door at the back of the hall.
‘Mr Murray?’ Tufty followed him into a kitchen that was even dustier. No fancy gadgets, no R2-D2 cookie jars or Dalek tea cosies, not even a cooker – just a hole where it usedto be. Going by the fust-and-dust outline on the wall, a big American-style fridge freezer once lived here – now replaced by a battered under-the-counter job that buzzed like it was full of wasps. But what the kitchendidhave were a cheap kettle, a cheap toaster, and a cheap microwave, perched on the grubby worktops; a crispy layer of dead flies on the windowsill, and a bunch of chubby bluebottles banging their heads against the grubby glass.
Oh, and bottles. Lots and lots and lots of bottles. An army of them, all empty and lined up on parade. Most of Mr Murray’s squaddies looked like the kind of wine supermarkets flogged for under a fiver, with the odd bottle of Old Sporran McRotgut acting as captains and generals.
