Neil Gaiman - Trigger Warning - Short Fictions and Disturbances

Polly nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you should go and talk to him.’

Mr Browning shrugged. He needed to save the work he’d done so far anyway. As the computer made its grumbling sound, Mr Browning went downstairs. Polly, who had planned to go up to her bedroom to write in her diary, decided to sit on the stairs and find out what was going to happen next.

Standing in the front garden was a tall man in a rabbit mask. It was not a particularly convincing mask. It covered his entire face, and two long ears rose above his head. He held a large, leather, brown bag, which reminded Mr Browning of the doctors’ bags of his childhood.

‘Now, see here,’ began Mr Browning, but the man in the rabbit mask put a gloved finger to his painted bunny lips, and Mr Browning fell silent.

‘Ask me what time it is,’ said a quiet voice that came from behind the unmoving muzzle of the rabbit mask.

Mr Browning said, ‘I understand you’re interested in the house.’ The FOR SALE sign by the front gate was grimy and streaked by the rain.

‘Perhaps. You can call me Mister Rabbit. Ask me what time it is.’

Mr Browning knew that he ought to call the police. Ought to do something to make the man go away. What kind of crazy person wears a rabbit mask anyway?

‘Why are you wearing a rabbit mask?’

‘That was not the correct question. But I am wearing the rabbit mask because I am representing an extremely famous and important person who values his or her privacy. Ask me what time it is.’

Mr Browning sighed. ‘What time is it, Mister Rabbit?’ he asked.

The man in the rabbit mask stood up straighter. His body language was one of joy and delight. ‘Time for you to be the richest man on Claversham Row,’ he said. ‘I’m buying your house, for cash, and for more than ten times what it’s worth, because it’s just perfect for me now.’ He opened the brown leather bag, and produced blocks of money, each block containing five hundred – ‘count them, go on, count them’ – crisp fifty-pound notes, and two plastic supermarket shopping bags, into which he placed the blocks of currency.

Mr Browning inspected the money. It appeared to be real.

‘I . . .’ He hesitated. What did he need to do? ‘I’ll need a few days. To bank it. Make sure it’s real. And we’ll need to draw up contracts, obviously.’

‘Contract’s already drawn up,’ said the man in the rabbit mask. ‘Sign here. If the bank says there’s anything funny about the money, you can keep it and the house. I’ll be back on Saturday to take vacant possession. You can get everything out by then, can’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Browning. Then: ‘I’m sure I can. I mean, of course. ’

‘I’ll be here on Saturday,’ said the man in the rabbit mask.

‘This is a very unusual way of doing business,’ said Mr Browning. He was standing at his front door holding two shopping bags, containing £750,000.

‘Yes,’ agreed the man in the rabbit mask. ‘It is. See you on Saturday, then.’

He walked away. Mr Browning was relieved to see him go. He had been seized by the irrational conviction that, were he to remove the rabbit mask, there would be nothing underneath.

Polly went upstairs to tell her diary everything she had seen and heard.

***

On Thursday, a tall young man with a tweed jacket and a bow tie knocked on the door. There was nobody at home, and nobody answered, and, after walking around the house, he went away.

***

On Saturday, Mr Browning stood in his empty kitchen. He had banked the money successfully, which had wiped out all his debts. The furniture that they had wanted to keep had been put into a moving van and sent to Mr Browning’s uncle, who had an enormous garage he wasn’t using.

‘What if it’s all a joke?’ asked Mrs Browning.

‘Not sure what’s funny about giving someone seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ said Mr Browning. ‘The bank says it’s real. Not reported stolen. Just a rich and eccentric person who wants to buy our house for a lot more than it’s worth.’

They had booked two rooms in a local hotel, although hotel rooms had proved harder to find than Mr Browning had expected. Also, he had had to convince Mrs Browning, who was a nurse, that they could now afford to stay in a hotel.

‘What happens if he never comes back?’ asked Polly. She was sitting on the stairs, reading a book.

Mr Browning said, ‘Now you’re being silly.’

‘Don’t call your daughter silly,’ said Mrs Browning. ‘She’s got a point. You don’t have a name or a phone number or anything.’

This was unfair. The contract was made out, and the buyer’s name was clearly written on it: N. M. de Plume. There was an address, too, for a firm of London solicitors, and Mr Browning had phoned them and been told that, yes, this was absolutely legitimate.

‘He’s eccentric,’ said Mr Browning. ‘An eccentric millionaire.’

‘I bet it’s him behind that rabbit mask,’ said Polly. ‘The eccentric millionaire.’

The doorbell rang. Mr Browning went to the front door, his wife and daughter beside him, each of them hoping to meet the new owner of their house.

‘Hello,’ said the lady in the cat mask. It was not a very realistic mask. Polly saw her eyes glinting behind it, though.

‘Are you the new owner?’ asked Mrs Browning.

‘Either that, or I’m the owner’s representative.’

‘Where’s . . . your friend? In the rabbit mask?’

Despite the cat mask, the young lady (was she young? Her voice sounded young, anyway) seemed efficient and almost brusque. ‘You have removed all your possessions? I’m afraid anything left behind will become the property of the new owner.’

‘We’ve got everything that matters.’

‘Good.’

Polly said, ‘Can I come and play in the garden? There isn’t a garden at the hotel.’ There was a swing on the oak tree in the back garden, and Polly loved to sit on it and read.

‘Don’t be silly, love,’ said Mr Browning. ‘We’ll have a new house, and then you’ll have a garden with swings. I’ll put up new swings for you.’

The lady in the cat mask crouched down. ‘I’m Mrs Cat. Ask me what time it is, Polly.’

Polly nodded. ‘What’s the time, Mrs Cat?’

‘Time for you and your family to leave this place and never look back,’ said Mrs Cat, but she said it kindly.

Polly waved goodbye to the lady in the cat mask when she got to the end of the garden path.

III

They were in the TARDIS control room, going home.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Amy was saying. ‘Why were the Skeleton People so angry with you in the first place? I thought they wanted to get free from the rule of the Toad-King.’

‘They weren’t angry with me about that, ’ said the young man in the tweed jacket and the bow tie. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I think they were quite pleased to be free, actually.’ He ran his hands across the TARDIS control panel, patting levers, stroking dials. ‘They were just a bit upset with me because I’d walked off with their squiggly whatsit.’

‘Squiggly whatsit?’

‘It’s on the . . .’ He gestured vaguely with arms that seemed to be mostly elbows and joints. ‘The tabley thing over there. I confiscated it.’

Amy looked irritated. She wasn’t irritated, but she sometimes liked to give him the impression she was, just to show him who was boss. ‘Why don’t you ever call things by their proper names? The tabley thing over there ? It’s called “a table”.’

She walked over to the table. The squiggly whatsit was glittery and elegant: it was the size and general shape of a bracelet, but it twisted in ways that made it hard for the eye to follow.