Doors: Housecall (i)

Gecko sat huddled in the warmth of his partner’s front pocket, yet he could not stop shivering.
“Will you just relax?” came Clive’s muttered voice above. “She’s making us tea, for godssake."
“It’s not that,” trembled Gecko, and pictured Ms. Agnes’s prune-skinned face, tiny black eyes and row upon row of needle like teeth. “She reminds me of my mother, is all.” Clive’s hulking frame let out a raspy chortle as he went back to idly surveying a sitting room dotted with fading family pictures, rotting furniture and rodent shit.
“Sorry about the delay, lads,” apologized Ms. Agnes, hobbling into the living room with a silver tea tray held precariously in her hands. “I don’t often entertain visitors, let alone Doormen, and I wanted to make this extra special.”
“Let me help you with that, ma’am,” said Clive, the plastic sheeting on the sofa squeaking as he stood up to help.
“Now,” Ms Anges said, idly dipping a Musk-Rat in and out of her cup of hot water. “What’s this all about?”

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