Page 130 of Shroom for Improvement

He straightened himself up, took a step back from John, and turned to me. “What’ll it be then, my lord. Will you take Mr Greene’s offer?”

“I will never sign that,” I spat.

Jacques sighed. “As you wish. Please summon the rest of the residents and explain to them they have twenty-four hours to pack.”

Nobody spoke for a while. Jacques’s words, or the way he’d said them, bounced around in my head and stirred something inside me. The beginnings of an idea.

“We don’t know where Mr Dupont is,” squeaked Oggy. “He’s missing. Never showed up for breakfast this morning. He never misses breakfast.”

The idea fizzed into something more. It might have been the stupidest, most risky idea I’d ever come up with, but desperate times. “Okay, I’ll summon the rest of the residents,” I began. “But you can be the one to explain the compulsory purchase order to them.”

Jacques bumbled. “Uh . . . well, I suppose—”

“Better idea!” I yelled, interrupting. “Mr Greene, if you can convince them to agree to the sale, I will accept your offer.”

“Deal!” Mr Greene said, tripping over his feet in his eagerness to shake my hand.

“Claude!” whined Oggy, as Willow said, “Nooo!”

Under his breath and loud enough only I could hear, John whispered, “You evil fucking genius.”

I suppressed my smile. It was far too early, and the idea too unpredictable to congratulate myself yet. But at this point, what did we have to lose?

Right... now, how exactly did I do this?

“Don’t say her name, okay? You wouldn’t want to accidentally summon her.”

“Summon her? Gods, is she some sort of daemon—”

I cleared my throat. “Mrs Ziegler?” I said, loud and clear, enunciating each individual sound.

Oggy gasped. Willow laughed. John took out his notepad.

“One of her more brilliant gifts is drawing every moment of guilt or regret from a person and playing them like a private movie inside their minds, reducing them to a cowering husk.”

“Mrs Ziegler!” I said again. Louder this time.

Jacques’s jaw dropped, his mouth hung open. Mr Greene frowned at me. Crossed his arms.

“Mrs Ziegler!” I said for a third and final time.

The air around us crackled like static electricity, my vision whited out for a fraction of a second as though a camera’s flash popped, and there stood Mrs Ziegler in the centre of all of us. Frizzy salt and pepper hair, slightly wrinkled face, purple leggings, a monochrome chevron-print hoodie, bumbag, and a microfibre towel draped around her neck like a scarf.

Mr Greene stared at Mrs Ziegler. His features slid from worry to amusement, and he started laughing.

Jacques, obviously sensing the correct level of danger now present, tried to wave a hand to alert his acquaintance, but John caught Jacques’s wrist, and pulled it down to his side.

“Can I have a moment alone?” he whispered to the councillor, who in return swallowed and nodded, though the pair remained rooted to the spot, transfixed by whatever was about to unfold.

Oh, shit. What had I done?

Mrs Ziegler smiled at each of us, then raised a curious eyebrow at Mr Greene. I saw the smile curve her lips and my stomach flipped.

“What a sorry excuse for an orgy this is,” Mrs Ziegler said, her eyes still fixed on Mr Greene. “Why have I been summoned in the middle of my morning yoga routine?”

I forced my voice to remain steady. “This is Mr Greene. He’s come to make us an offer to buy Stinkhorn Manor. If we do not accept the offer, the council will force us to sell. We will have to move by this time tomorrow morning and they will demolish the building.”

Mr Greene stepped forward. “Perhaps I could borrow a moment of your time to chat about my offer?” he said to Mrs Ziegler.

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