Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Read Free Book Online

against the door.
    “Find something to wedge it. Quick.”
    I locked out my legs and leaned into the door, trying to put my weight just over the handle. Something heavy hit the other side, hard enough for the door to open by two inches then slam shut again.
    Behind me I heard clattering and smashing.
    “If you’re going to do something, now would be a good time,” I shouted.
    The door slammed against my shoulder, opening almost three inches this time.
    “Let it open further next time,” Duncan shouted.
    “Open further? Are you mad?”
    “Trust me. I have a plan.”
    The next time the door slammed against me I let it open slightly wider.  
    Duncan stepped forward and threw something through the gap, something that smashed in the hallway beyond.  
    I put my shoulder to the door and slammed it shut. This time Duncan helped me.
    “Okay,” the older man said. “Now I need your lighter.”
    I managed to dig inside my jacket, came up with the Zippo and handed it to Duncan.
    “If I say duck, don’t ask ‘Where?’” Duncan said.
    The door slammed hard on my shoulder. My feet slid on the floor as the door opened, six inches, then nine. A long dry hand at the end of an arm clad in thick blue serge gripped the inside edge and pulled. A head followed, grey hair hanging lankly over a face further obscured by a full salt-and-pepper beard. The blue serge was a heavy jacket, done up with silver buttons.
    A naval man.
    I heard the distinctive sound of a Zippo being fired up.
    “Duck,” Duncan shouted.
    I ducked. Something flew past my ear, something that burned yellow.  
    The hall beyond the door exploded into flame. The blue-serge clad figure fell away from the door. I slammed it shut and Duncan wedged a chair under the handle. Even though the door was firmly closed the smell of cooking meat seeped through the gaps.
    “Good plan,” I said when I’d caught my breath. “What did you use?”
    He looked sheepish.
    “A bottle of Smirnoff. Blue Label. I hid it up here so the missus wouldn’t catch me at it.”
    That was the first I’d heard of a Mrs. Duncan. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask, but I had to. “And where is she now?”
    He waved at the door, fresh tears in his eyes. “Out there for all I know. I put her out in the garden nearly a year ago now. But if I know her she’ll be up and about—she never missed a chance to give me a hard time.”  
    My phone rang, saving me from having to get deeper into the conversation. It was Doug.
    “How’s it going?” he asked. In reply he got a thirty-second diatribe on the merits of not splitting up text messages. I may even have used several words my mammy wouldn’t have liked very much. Even then, he wasn’t particularly contrite, but I couldn’t afford the satisfaction of hanging up on him—Doug was our only chance to get out of this.
    “Come on then,” I said when he showed no signs of replying. “I know you. You wouldn’t have phoned if you didn’t have something for me.”
    “McLeod was a naval officer,” Doug began.
    I didn’t have time for the long version. Something had started pounding on the door again, rattling it in hinges that looked old and rusted.  
    “I know,” I said. “I’ve met the man. Very sprightly, considering he’s been dead these many years.”
    I heard Doug’s sharp intake of breath.
    “And have you seen the collection?” he finally said.
    “Seen it? I’m standing in the middle of it.”
    I didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling.
    “That’s good,” he said. “You need to find her hair.”
    “Her?”
    “Mrs. McLeod. He had her scalp and hair made into a headpiece after she died. There was a great scandal and...”
    “Enough,” I said, feeling as if I’d just kicked an excited puppy. “Just get to the point Doug. The undead are at the door, and they’re worse than the bible-thumpers.”
    The pounding at the door got louder as if to emphasize my point. The top hinge squealed, the screws starting to loosen